At Last I Meet the Great Man Himself
OH, GOODNESS!” MAMA EXCLAIMED AS SHE OPENED HER reticule and removed a clean yellow handkerchief, which seemed to turn to a sooty gray before our eyes. “The dirt! Vinnie, my chick, however did you manage on those trains out west with all this dirt?”
“I didn’t,” I admitted, bouncing about on the uncomfortable wooden seat, barely able to see out the window to my right, but it didn’t matter; it was smeared with the same sooty gray as Mama’s handkerchief. “I was filthy when I got to the boat.”
“These contraptions are no place for a lady,” Mama muttered, pressing the handkerchief to the inner corner of her eye, trying to remove some minuscule piece of dirt, although it wouldn’t make a difference; her cheeks had smudges on them, as well.
Papa sat next to me with his eyes squeezed shut; the moment the train had pulled out of the station in Middleborough, he had paled. Upon my suggestion that he look at the scenery, beginning to pass by ever faster, he turned decidedly green. From that moment on, he had refused to open his eyes or move his head; he sat as straight and stiff as a corpse against the hard back of his seat. I patted his hand in sympathy; his occasional squeeze was the sole indication I had that he had not passed on to the Great Beyond.
I was sorry for him, but even that could not dampen my excitement, excitement that had been building ever since that fateful afternoon a month ago when a Mr. Fuller had sent word—by telegram! We had never seen such a thing!—that, acting on behalf of Mr. Phineas Taylor Barnum, he, Mr. Fuller, would very much like to meet me.
Oh, the stir this simple message caused! Mama began cleaning right away, even as she and Papa argued with me about the obvious intent of the coming visit. Did I have any idea what I might be getting myself into? Why couldn’t I just stay home like the rest of their children? (Although when I pointed out that two of their sons were soldiers, they pretended not to hear.) Did I have no heart in me? Had I so enjoyed being surrounded by morally depraved show people that I was eager to escape the bosom of a Christian home to take up with them again? And that Barnum? That master of humbug! What might he do, in my name, in the good name of this good family, to dupe the public once more?
And most frequently asked of all the questions my parents hurtled at me, when they weren’t tidying and scrubbing and consoling Minnie, who flew into tears at the thought of another stranger coming to take me away—
How? How on earth had he heard of me? It had been almost two years since I had made my escape from the clutches of Colonel Wood (they made it sound so dramatic, I wondered if they pictured me running barefoot through a swamp just like Eliza in Uncle Tom’s Cabin, pursued by alligators, show folk, and Rebel soldiers) and come back, safe and sound, so they didn’t have to worry about me any longer. How had that Barnum (for this was how they began to refer to him, “that Barnum,” as if he had no other Christian name) heard of me in that time?
Naturally, I declined to join in this last speculation. For of course I knew: I was the one who had told him. That letter I mailed back in December—that had been my ticket out into the world, I dearly hoped.
And so it would seem to have proved. Mr. Fuller duly arrived; we chatted in the parlor (where I tried very hard to push away the memory of Colonel Wood’s fateful visit). I showed him my press clippings, the letters written to me by many a fine citizen of the West. I saved the most distinguished letter for last; in this late summer of 1862, any mention of Mr. Grant, with whom I had passed such a charming hour in Galena, was extremely impressive, indeed. After the Battle of Fort Donelson, when he had demanded “unconditional and immediate surrender” of the Rebel troops, Major General Ulysses S. Grant had become a household name. I could see that Mr. Fuller was very taken by my account of that visit and the letter of thanks, in Mrs. Grant’s hand, that had reached me on the boat.
Mr. Fuller departed with no indication of what he felt about me and my clippings, which worried me, even as it enabled Mama and Papa to cease their fretting. But Mr. Fuller must have made a favorable report to Mr. Barnum, for the former was soon back again, armed this time with a contract. At this point Mama and Papa began to protest even more forcibly. In the most polite language—and while simultaneously serving Mr. Fuller some of her most delicate shortbread cookies and tea—Mama made it known that she did not trust Mr. Barnum’s reputation for telling lies to the public, as she saw it.
“Perhaps we should meet Mr. Barnum himself,” I finally suggested, in desperation. “For I believe only he can put my parents’ minds at ease.”
Mr. Fuller grumbled and departed again, contract unsigned but still in my possession; days later we received an invitation from Mr. Barnum to visit him in his home in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Thus it was that we three were on the train going west.
There was one more obstacle in the way, one more potentially dire than my parents’ objections, and one that I kept to myself: I was still technically under contract to Colonel Wood. After he had crept away in Louisville, I tried to assure myself that I would see him no more. Yet I couldn’t trust him, even though, for all I knew, the Colonel might be in the army, or a prisoner of war, or even dead, as thousands were, more and more every day. Although I disliked imagining that evil man clad in the glory of Yankee blue, just like my brothers.
“Do you think that Barnum will meet us at the station?” Mama fretted, patting her graying bun that peeked out of the back of her bonnet, so tightly wound and secured that no amount of train travel could disturb it.
“Mama, please, I beg of you, try to refrain from calling him ‘that Barnum.’ ”
“Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, you know that I will address him in the most polite manner! Who do you think I am? Is this why you’re so eager to leave home again? Are you so ashamed of us?” Mama’s eyes began to water and tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving an oily trail of grime.
I sighed and handed her my unspoiled handkerchief. “No, Mama, of course not. I’m sorry—I’m just a trifle nervous, you see. I do so want to make a good impression.”
“You have no need to be nervous about that,” Mama replied with a sniff. “He’s the one who should be worried about making a good impression on us. He’s just a showman. You’re a descendent of one of the Mayflower Company!”
“Yes, Mama.” I had to smile; my mother’s righteous anger at the idea of a man such as that Barnum having to impress the Bump family was so powerful that it dried her tears and caused her to sit up so straight, her spine was a good six inches away from the back of the seat.
We passed the rest of the journey mostly in silence, after changing trains in Providence. It was late afternoon before we pulled into the Bridgeport station.
As we disembarked—Papa, his color returning to his usual ruddy hue, gently lifting me off the train onto the platform—a liveried coachman approached. He was clad in a dusky red driving jacket and a tall silk hat; when he reached us, he bowed smartly.
“Miss Bump?” He looked down at me, yet his face betrayed no surprise or amusement at my size.
“Yes?”
“With Mr. Barnum’s regards, Miss, I’m to take you and your family to Lindencroft in the carriage. Please come this way.” And he turned; we followed him through the crowded station to a waiting open carriage. It was black, polished to a gleam so high that we could see our reflections in it, with brass handles and hinges, a fine pair of chestnut horses, their harnesses also polished and gleaming in the sun. Papa handed me up into the carriage and we all settled in. The coachman climbed atop his perch and coaxed the horses into motion.
“What do you think so far, Mama?” I couldn’t help myself, but Mama had been so quiet ever since the coachman had greeted us. I knew she was impressed.
“I think Mr. Barnum affords a lovely carriage” was all she would allow.
Papa nodded, passing his hand over the seat next to him. “Real leather,” he said in tones usually reserved for church. “And them horses—a matched pair!”
I smiled and turned my attention to the streets of Bridgeport. We quickly passed through the business section and soon found ourselves on wide streets lined with gracious homes, bigger than any we had back in Middleborough. These were newer, in the more modern architectural style featuring ornately scrolled embellishments, cupolas, wide porches, two and even three stories high, all set back from the street on enormous, beautifully tended lawns. I glimpsed large carriage houses—some larger than our farmhouse!—set far back from the street. Occasionally we passed land set aside as parks, with well-tended gardens, gazebos, and benches.
As we passed so many houses, each one seemingly grander than the one before, I sensed that the coachman was taking us down the most picturesque streets. Mama’s constant exclamations of “Oh, my,” and Papa’s involuntary utterances of “Will you look at that?” were growing wearisome to me; as impressed as I was by the beautiful homes and streets of Bridgeport, they were not the reason I had come.
“That house there, to the right, is the home of Mr. Charles Stratton himself. Or as you may know him, Tom Thumb,” the coachman called over his shoulder, slowing the horses down to a stately walk. As this was the one time he had pointed out a home’s ownership, I was suddenly very sure that he had driven this way deliberately.
Papa and Mama both twisted in their seats to get a better look. I remained where I was for a moment, impatience to reach our destination rooting me to my seat. But finally I, too, turned to look.
It was a fine home. That was all I would say for it at the moment. It was three stories with a cupola, a wide lawn, an inviting porch. It was very grand, very big, and if I was meant to be impressed by it and by the implication that if I signed with Mr. Barnum I, too, might one day live on such an estate, I suppose I was.
But I was also annoyed by this transparent sales technique. I felt it in poor taste. Turning back around, I instructed the driver, curtly, to please continue to Mr. Barnum’s home.
“Yes, Miss,” he said apologetically. Then he flicked the reins and we trotted off again. Ten minutes later we pulled into a gated circular drive, the coachman saying, with unmistakable pride in his tone, “Welcome to Lindencroft.”
We had driven up to a set of granite stepping-stones so tall, I could exit the carriage without assistance. Once I alighted, I shook my skirts out—dust flying everywhere, fine grains captured in the sunlight—and surveyed my surroundings. The lawn was manicured, with a circular pool embellished with a statue of Poseidon in the middle. The house itself was grand but not ostentatious; I’d certainly seen larger, more elaborate homes on the drive over.
It was built of buff-colored stone, three stories high, with ornately carved cornices. A deep porch was framed by columns, and wide marble steps led up to the imposing front door.
Mama and Papa didn’t say a word; none of us had ever been to a house this fine before, but somehow I felt they looked to me to take the lead. Both hung back just a little; I felt their country shyness acutely, and resolved to ease their minds.
“This way,” I said with determination. And I walked up the porch steps—rather steep for me, but I would not falter—and motioned for Papa to tug the velvet rope hanging to the right of the door; when he did, a deep gong sounded.
“Well, I never!” He stepped back in alarm, dropping the rope as if it had scorched his hands.
“It’s only a bell to summon the maid,” I told my father, although I did not know how I knew that. I simply did.
Sure enough, an aproned and capped young woman opened the door; I gave her our names, and she ushered us inside to the cool interior. We blinked at the sudden change in light; inside the house, all was dark: darkly paneled walls, polished wooden floors, shutters and drapes keeping out the summer heat.
“I’ll show you to a room where you can freshen up,” the maid whispered to Mama and me; Mama clutched my arm gratefully, for I knew she was worried about her disheveled appearance. After showing Papa into one of the rooms opening up to the main hall, the maid led us up a grand staircase, kindly slowing her steps to accommodate mine; she ushered us into a bedroom where pitchers of water, basins, and the finest of linen towels and cloths were waiting on a shining dressing table arrayed with pins, hairbrushes, and a clothes brush. She withdrew, and Mama and I fell upon the water as if we’d just been rescued from the desert, washing our faces, our hands, tidying up our hair, brushing each other’s dresses off. Mama pointed to a stool that had been placed strategically in front of the dressing table so that I could reach everything myself.
“How thoughtful!” she whispered, as if afraid someone might overhear. I tried not to smile at her nervousness, which had the effect of making my own disappear. “Should we tidy the room up?” she asked when we had finished our toilettes. She glanced nervously at the towels, which were no longer snowy white; the water in the basin was now a soupy gray.
“No,” I said; once again, I did not know how I knew that. But I did. Ever since we’d stepped foot in that magnificent carriage, I had instinctively known how to behave among such riches. My parents, however, did not; never had I seen them so unsure of themselves. I could not imagine either of them happily living in a mansion; Mama would wear herself out scrubbing all those marble floors, for she would never trust anyone else to clean them!
That did not mean, however, that I could not imagine living in a mansion myself. As we left the room, refreshed and presentable, the maid led us back down the wide carpeted staircase. With each step I felt my spine straighten, my head lift itself upon my neck until my chin was almost pointed straight up to the ceiling. I imagined myself in a Parisian ball gown—in a properly fitting corset!—descending a staircase like this to greet my guests. Despite the huge proportions of this house—the ceilings enormously tall, the woodwork deep, the windowpanes more expansive than any I’d ever seen—I did not feel overwhelmed. Rather, I felt every inch a great lady, expanding to match the generosity of her surroundings.
We were ushered into a library, where Papa was already seated next to a fireplace flanked by bookshelves; the polished grate was empty save for an enormous Oriental fan. He had a cigar in his hand, which he handled as gingerly as if it might suddenly turn into a snake and bite him. As soon as he saw Mama and me, he dropped it—fortunately, it was not lit—and shot from his chair.
“Vinnie!” he cried out in obvious relief; he said my name as if he had given up hope of ever saying it again.
“So this is the famously contrary Miss Bump, who would not sign her contract until she met me herself.” Another voice rang out; it was a wry, humorous voice. I heard laughter lurking behind it, kept just barely at bay.
From the depths of a high-backed wing chair, a man rose. He was a tall man; taller than Papa, who was not short. He had large hands, a fleshy nose, high forehead with luxurious graying curls, and bushy eyebrows. His lips were rather thin, held together in a crooked line that gave him a very whimsical look. His eyes, beneath those eyebrows, were piercing gray and alert, the most watchful eyes I’d ever seen. They were kindly, however: observant, wary, yet kindly. I sensed a light behind them, a twinkle that—like the laughter in his voice—was never far from the surface yet held firmly in check.
“I am Miss Bump,” I said, crossing toward this man and extending my hand without hesitation. “And am I to believe you are the equally famous Mr. Barnum?”
“That I am, that I am, indeed.” He took my hand solemnly, shook it, then suddenly bent down to peer directly into my face. His eyes were level with mine, so close that I could see myself reflected in them, and I had the startling, dizzy impression of a carnival, of colors and sounds and mirrors of every shape and size; of music, joyous, merry music tooted from horns and plucked by fiddles. How one man’s gaze could engage so many senses, I had no idea; I only knew his did. It nearly knocked the breath out of me; my heart did a riotous somersault as the back of my neck tickled with excitement, and I fought an undignified urge to giggle.
However, I managed to keep my composure. I looked back at him, meeting him halfway; for a long moment our gazes held. I do not know what he saw in mine, but it appeared to satisfy him; with a businesslike nod, he straightened up, shook hands with my mother, then motioned for us to take a seat. One chair had a footstool placed strategically in front of it; I knew it had been placed there for me.
Once we were all seated, Mr. Barnum rang a silver bell; another maid appeared, and he asked for lemonade and cookies to be served. I felt Mama approved of this, as she smiled in genuine pleasure and relaxed a fraction, just enough so that I did not fear she might break into brittle little pieces if she moved too quickly.
“Did you have a pleasant journey?” Mr. Barnum asked my father.
“Well, I guess. Nothing bad happened, anyway. But I’m not looking forward to the return home.” Papa picked up the dropped cigar and held it, once again, at arm’s length. I knew he did not approve of cigars, only pipes.
“This was my parents’ first train journey,” I explained to Mr. Barnum, who nodded in sympathy.
“Oh, I remember my first trip! Like to have scared the daylights out of me, all the noise and steam and speed. Nothing beats the old horse and buggy, does it, Mr. Bump?”
“No, sirree, not by a long shot!” My father smiled for the first time since we left Middleborough; relaxing, he dropped the cigar in a cut-glass ashtray and left it there.
“But now, why—can’t get along without it! I couldn’t keep up with my business if I didn’t take the train into New York every day!”
“Every day? You take the train every day?” Papa looked at him in horror.
“Can’t deny it! Every weekday morning, just about, ol’ William—that’s the coachman—takes me to the station, and I take the train into New York, then I walk to my museum. I take the train home at night, and William drives me back here. Very efficient—and I don’t have to live in the city anymore. I can’t imagine living anyplace but Bridgeport now—my wife’s health, you know, requires rest and sea air.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mama murmured automatically, but Mr. Barnum merely waved his hand.
“ ’Tis nothing new to me; Charity has long been prone to sickness. I tire her out, that’s the thing; it takes a lot out of a woman to keep up with me!” And Mr. Barnum laughed, as if it were truly nothing, but behind his eyes that little light wavered a bit.
The maid brought in a tray with tall frosty glasses of lemonade and plates of delicate sugar cookies; she served them all around, then left the tray and silently retired.
“Now, let’s get to the point of this. I understand you don’t think very highly of me.” Mr. Barnum spoke to my father, although I felt as if he was really addressing my mother. He turned to Papa, but his eyes looked at her.
“Oh, my, well, I never intended to be rude!” Mama was very flustered—but she was the one who answered, as Papa chose that moment to conveniently stuff a cookie into his mouth.
“Not rude, just prudent,” Mr. Barnum replied cheerfully, with an understanding nod. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest—an attitude I would soon grow to know very well. It was an attitude of waiting—waiting for someone to give him the answer that he sought. Rarely was he left waiting for long.
“Yes, prudent, of course!” Mama nodded vigorously. “You see, Vinnie—Lavinia—is our eldest daughter left at home, and naturally we worry about her. We are quite an old family, you know—the Warrens from Massachusetts; five of my ancestors came over on the Mayflower.” Mama smiled in that prim way she had whenever she spoke of her ancestry.
“You don’t say?” Mr. Barnum’s eyebrows raised and his eyes narrowed intently. He appeared to be filing this information away, for what purpose my mother of course could not suspect—but I did, and I smiled to myself, nibbling daintily at a cookie.
“So naturally we have concerns about her future,” Mama continued. “We want only what is proper and dignified for Lavinia and for our family.”
“Naturally.” Mr. Barnum sat for a second, apparently deep in thought. The room was silent, save for the sound of my father nervously clearing his throat. “Yet you had no qualms about letting her travel about the Mississippi on a rowboat?”
Mama gasped, and Papa, who had been uneasily silent until now, said, “See here!”
Mr. Barnum merely smiled, turning to me for the first time in this conversation. And then he sat back, his arms still folded across his chest, and waited.
“It was not a rowboat,” I replied, struggling not to smile, for I knew he was but toying with us. “It was a floating palace of curiosities, and a very popular one at that.”
“Run by a cousin of yours, I understand?”
“Yes, Colonel Wood, a cousin of mine. That was the only reason we let Lavinia go with him,” Mama interjected, her forehead wrinkling in concern and puzzlement.
“Cousin.” Mr. Barnum snorted dismissively. “Be that as it may, I assure you that what I am offering Miss Bump is much more than a lazy ride up the Mississippi in some rickety boat. But, of course, I’m no cousin. Just a humble farmer’s son from Connecticut—no descendent of the Mayflower.”
“Well, now, I’m a farmer myself.” Papa stirred uncomfortably. “I can’t fault a man for being that!”
“No, of course not, that’s not at all what I meant.” Mama, more flustered than I’d ever seen her, frowned down at her hands.
“My poor father died when I was but a lad, and I had to care for my mother and sisters, so I was not able to have the kind of education I’m sure the Warrens of Massachusetts were able to provide for their sons,” Mr. Barnum continued, his face so serious but his eyes so close to merry. I was the only one who saw them, however; my parents were too ashamed to meet his gaze.
“Well, it’s not as if we were able to send our boys to Harvard, either,” Papa said agreeably. “They’re farmers, too, the ones who aren’t off fighting.”
“Fighting for our grand Union?” Mr. Barnum’s voice now filled with musical emotion—fifes and drums and “Yankee Doodle.” Sitting up straight, he placed his hand over his heart—and I had to look away, biting the inside of my cheek so as not to burst into laughter. He rose and laid his other hand gently upon Mama’s arm. “Madam, I cannot begin to convey my gratitude to you, a mother of such brave boys. Your noble sacrifice will never be forgotten.”
Mama, her face covered in mortification, simply nodded, still unable to look Mr. Barnum in the eye. He returned to his seat with a loud, dramatic sniff—then turned to give me a brazen wink, which made me gasp out loud.
Mama and Papa looked at me, but I simply shook my head and dabbed my eye, as if contemplating my brothers’ courage.
“I do understand your concerns,” Mr. Barnum said, his voice still choked with emotion. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and your noble family. I’m a father myself, you know—I have three lovely daughters living, and one angel taken from us far too soon.”
“Oh, no!” Mama exclaimed.
“So you see, I have no desire to do anything but keep Miss Bump virtuous and safe from harm, while naturally allowing her the opportunity to see a bit of the world in the manner deserving of such a fine lady, from such a fine family. I know I’m merely a farmer’s son, a patriot, a father of daughters—but I vow, with all my heart, to protect your daughter. I’d die myself before I would bring shame upon your good name.”
During this speech, Mr. Barnum had leaned forward toward my parents in a beseeching attitude, his hands outstretched, his face open and earnest. Mama and Papa listened intently, transfixed.
I leaned forward as well; I did so want my parents’ blessing. I could not imagine continuing to live in Middleborough, where I would never fit in, not only because of my size but now because of my reputation. I could imagine no future for me there that did not consist of staying at home with Mama and Papa and Minnie, growing smaller and older with each tick of the kitchen mantel clock, which Mama faithfully wound every day—until I disappeared completely.
I had known Mr. Barnum only a quarter of an hour, but already I felt my wits quicken with every word he spoke, every move he made, as if he were the sharpening stone and I the edge of the knife. It was as if I had at last found someone with a personality, with dreams, as big as my own.
“What I can’t understand is how you heard of Lavinia in the first place.” Mama shook her head. “She’s been back home for almost two years now. I thought that she’d gotten this whole thing out of her system.”
“Why, I—” Mr. Barnum happened to turn my way; he caught me shaking my head and he clamped his mouth shut—after first giving me a small, admiring nod. “That is, your daughter’s reputation reached my ears from other performers who spoke highly of her; her beauty and grace are known far beyond the Mississippi.”
“They are?” Papa looked at me, then scratched his head, as if trying to see these attributes and failing. I smiled fondly; I knew I was just his daughter, just his Vinnie, and I loved him for that. Even though he had never known precisely what to do with me, he had always loved me for no special reason at all, which satisfied my heart more than I could ever tell him.
“Yes, they are. This is quite a daughter you have here.” And they all three beamed upon me as if I were an unopened Christmas present.
“We just don’t want any deception perpetuated in her name,” Mama announced, in an almost apologetic tone. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Madam, I assure you. Anything I say in public will be only with Miss Bump’s knowledge and approval.” Mr. Barnum turned to me, and once again I saw that sparkle flickering behind his gaze.
“Now, Mama, Papa, I would very much like to talk to Mr. Barnum alone,” I said decisively. This was my future, after all, and I had sat by, discussed to no end, for long enough. I wanted to talk to the man plainly; I had no desire to bind myself to anyone like Colonel Wood ever again. Even though he was the Great Barnum, I was determined not to let my vanity cloud my judgment this time.
“Really? Do you think that’s wise?” Mama asked Papa, as if I wasn’t there.
“Yes, I do,” I answered for him. Papa looked at me in that odd way again. I nodded gently at him and then waited as he and Mama withdrew outside, at Mr. Barnum’s suggestion, to stroll about the grounds and see the stables.
“Now,” he said, pulling his chair over to mine and slouching so that we sat, knee to knee, eye to eye. “Let’s have it. I perceive you are a most remarkable woman, Miss Bump.”
“Why is that, Mr. Barnum?”
“You sent me that letter, didn’t you? The one with all your clippings—but you didn’t tell your parents?”
“No, I did not.”
“And why is that? I have to say, it’s very unusual for me to hear from a performer directly in this way; I was surprised to find you weren’t already under contract with someone.”
I hesitated for only a moment before replying, “Well, I’m not. And I desire only the best for my career, which prompted me to write to you.”
“And about that career.” Mr. Barnum leaned back a little and lit a cigar, puffing it for a few moments before continuing. “Tell me about it. I know those showboats. I know the West. I know it’s a wild and woolly place. How did you survive it?”
Again, I hesitated for only a fraction of a second. “I got out just in time, because the War came. I won’t deceive you; it was not easy. I was not pleased with the vulgar manner in which—in which my cousin decided to exhibit me. For that matter, I would like to know your plans before I agree to anything. I think you should know, right off, I have no intention of being a female Tom Thumb.”
“You don’t?” He raised a bushy eyebrow, and I had a sense of the steely flint that gave that merry light its spark.
“No, I don’t, sir. I will not be paraded around in costumes and uniforms; I will not do imitations; I will not be your performing puppet. I think it’s not fitting for a woman, and it’s certainly not fitting for me.”
“You think Charlie Stratton’s my puppet? Why, you know nothing of it,” Mr. Barnum growled, reminding me of a grumpy bulldog with his round face, round nose, crooked mouth. “He’s my good friend, and he bailed me out of a real jam recently, agreeing to go on tour again because I needed the money. He was just a child when he dressed up in those costumes; it worked for him then. Now he’s a man—as you’re obviously a woman.”
“That’s precisely my point. I am a woman, not a puppet. I desire respectability in all things. And protection, too, from—from—well, protection that any lady would require from those who would take advantage of her—vulnerability.” My voice did falter, as I could not prevent myself from thinking of Colonel Wood’s plans for me in New Orleans.
Mr. Barnum fixed me with a bright, hard gaze, searching for the truth I was so obviously unwilling to speak. He found it; I’m sure he did, as he suddenly paled, then growled, the tip of his nose and his ears turning a dangerous red. He squashed his cigar down in the ashtray beside him with a violence I did not expect, then muttered something under his breath.
I hung my head, my face suffused with warmth; at that moment I could not meet his gaze. Yet when he finally spoke, it was with a voice so gentle, so careful, it reminded me of a child cradling a kitten. “Miss Bump, I’m sorry. I appreciate your delicacy in conveying this to me. When I spoke of the showboats being wild, I assure you—I had no idea of something of this nature, particularly happening to one so fine, so ladylike, as you. You have my word that nothing like that will ever happen, as long as you’re employed by me. You asked me how I intend to exhibit you—would you like to hear my plans?”
I nodded, still unable to look at him.
“As a lady. As a model lady, a lady of deportment, a lady deserving of every consideration, every finery. Do you remember Miss Jenny Lind?”
“Oh, yes!” I raised my face eagerly. “I do!”
“She was a model of womanhood.” He gestured to a painting I hadn’t noticed before; it hung on the opposite wall of the fireplace, and it was illuminated by a discreetly placed gaslight. It was of the Swedish Nightingale herself; a glorious portrait of a woman with softly waving brown hair, luminous eyes, in a virginal white dress. Mr. Barnum followed my gaze; I thought I saw a softer light in his eyes as they fell upon this portrait. I wondered at their relationship, and was surprised to feel a small prick of jealousy. I wanted, suddenly, someday, for someone to look at me in that reverent, adoring way.
“Miss Lind was—is—a model of womanhood, and that is how I displayed her—her voice, of course, was without parallel. That was always understood. But there are other fine singers, most of whom you’ve never heard, Miss Bump. Why is that? Because I decided to play up her modesty, her gentility, her virtue. No singer had ever been promoted in that way. I have something of the same in mind for you. That your size makes you different is not in question; why call attention to it only? But your manner, your intelligence, your family heritage—that makes you just as socially acceptable as Mrs. Astor or Mrs. Belmont. That is how I intend to present you to the public—as a perfect little lady, a gentlewoman, a Society woman. This is what people will remember about you.”
Tears stung my eyes as I listened to him; he had put into words what I myself had desired for so long. Yes, my height would be the first thing people noticed about me, but it would not be the last. Colonel Wood had never understood this very fine point; he had been such a rough, despicable man. I hoped never to have to utter his name again.
“Then I agree to work with you,” I told Mr. Barnum, holding my hand out to seal the bargain. He leaned forward and shook my hand heartily—not timidly, as most men did—and began to laugh.
“Of course,” I interrupted him coolly. “I will require a salary commensurate to a lady of my fine breeding. And a percentage of all souvenirs and cartes de visites sold.”
Mr. Barnum stopped laughing. He squinted at me with that bright, hard gaze. Then he laughed again, but not joyfully; just one short, rueful bark.
“Five percent is all I’ll give.”
“Ten.”
“Seven.”
“Eight, and I want to go to Europe first, to see the Queen, before I perform here. First-class passage, naturally.”
“Eight. And I’ll consider Europe. It worked for Charlie, back in the day. Our good patriotic citizens never fail to be impressed by a Royal stamp of approval, for some reason.”
“Deal,” I said, extending my hand once more.
“Deal.” Once more, he shook it. Then he leaned even closer to me, suddenly deadly serious. “But there’s something we need to settle right away, Miss Bump.”
“What is that?” My thoughts raced wildly; did he suspect about Colonel Wood’s contract?
“It’s the one thing that could doom this whole enterprise.” He gazed at me, not blinking; I gazed right back, holding my breath. I waited for him to speak, for a terrifyingly long time; I heard every creak and movement in the house, a muffled door slam, a silvery tinkle of china, so many clocks ticking out of sync. Still, he stared at me, until I was about to blurt out Colonel Wood’s name—then, finally, he grinned.
“Now, what are we going to do about your last name? Bump will never do.”
I drew in my breath sharply, then exhaled. And I began to laugh, out of pure relief and delight. He joined in, and suddenly I felt as if I’d known him all my life. He was no longer the great, revered P. T. Barnum, nor “that Barnum,” nor even the Prince of Humbug.
He was my mentor and friend. Mr. Barnum. And that was what he would remain.
Or so we both believed at the time.