And Baby Makes Three
DO YOU THINK WE’LL LIKE THE NEW BABY?” MINNIE ASKED anxiously as she sat upon a stool, watching the stewardess unpack her trunk. We were in our stateroom on the S.S. City of Washington; finally, I was on my way to see Europe!
It was October 1864, and we were now a corporation—officially known as the General Tom Thumb Company, in partnership with Mr. Barnum. Newly incorporated, we had toured New England and Canada starting in the fall of 1863, presenting a “marvelous, miniature quartet of the most perfectly formed men and women ever seen,” just as Mr. Barnum had imagined. Charles performed his most famous impersonations (unfortunately, he could no longer fit into the body stocking required for him to imitate Hercules, so that was dropped), I sang songs, we both danced, Commodore Nutt performed some sketches, and Minnie recited a simple poem as Mr. Bleeker invited the smallest child in the audience to stand next to her, for effect.
Each performance ended with a reenactment of our wedding, all four of us wearing our original clothes—a touching tableau suggested by Mr. Barnum, who soon got wind of an odd phenomenon sweeping our nation: a phenomenon known as the “Tom Thumb wedding.”
Newspaper reports began to appear, describing children being dressed up in wedding finery and arranged in pretend weddings, complete with cake and roses and infant minister. It was the nuptial ceremony in miniature, reenacted in our honor. There were hundreds of “Tom Thumb wedding” parties; “Tom Thumb wedding” fundraisers; “Tom Thumb wedding” pageants at schools.
Was I supposed to be touched by this, viewing it as a tribute to our love? Or was I supposed to be offended, seeing it as a mockery, a joke? I never could decide. After all, my own married life still seemed to be pretend. So much of it took place under the microscope of the public eye. At the end of a long day of performing—of waltzing together, singing together, presenting the perfect little married couple, capped by reciting the marriage vows themselves—Charles and I had nothing to talk about, and no house to keep. We took our meals at our hotel in silence and went to our separate bedrooms, exhausted.
I shared my bed with Minnie, just as we had when we were young; I rocked her to sleep every night. Charles did not seem to mind, for he was so very fond of her. In my sister, he’d found the playmate he had been looking for all his life, a partner in mischief and fun. I often came upon the two of them playing a game of marbles upon their knees, or whispering plans to tie Mr. Bleeker’s shoelaces together while he and I sat discussing business.
Minnie, now fifteen and maturing into a very pretty young woman, had settled in with the troupe remarkably well. Her serious nature was now lightened by flashes of humor, and while she was quite shy onstage, offstage she was invariably eager to explore her new surroundings—enjoying museums, taking strolls in hidden parks, and trying on bonnets in millinery stores. I promised Mama and Papa that I would see that she ate well, never walked alone without an escort, and went to church every Sunday. Above all, I promised myself that I would keep her sweet, innocent nature just the way it was. And to that end, I kept her close by me at all times. Much closer than I did my husband.
Our inaugural tour was so immensely successful that Mr. Bleeker felt compelled to write to Mr. Barnum proposing the postponement of our European tour for a year. “Leaving now,” he cautioned, “would be throwing away the cream.”
To no one’s surprise, Mr. Barnum wrote back, “My dear Bleeker, Go on; save the cream. Your returns show it to be cream and not skim milk. Yours, P. T. Barnum.” So we continued our travels in the United States, this time heading south. We even crossed enemy lines for one brief, confused moment when Mr. Bleeker couldn’t read a map, although to my disappointment, the enemy did not appear to notice. We soon got our bearings and turned around, crossing back into the safety of Kentucky.
It was there, in Louisville, where I saw my old friend General Grant, who was on his way to take command of the Army of the Potomac. The tide of war was turning, ever so slightly; after New York was torn apart by the Draft Riots of 1863 (we were on the last train out, heading north to Canada, before rioters tore up the train tracks leading to and from the city!), the Union was amassing more and more victories. Chattanooga, Spotsylvania, Cold Harbor—these battles had drained the Confederacy of more men than it could afford to lose. And General Sherman was at that time planning his assault on Atlanta.
It was also in Louisville that I exchanged photographs with a handsome young actor staying in our hotel; he introduced himself by reminding us his brother had attended our wedding.
A year later, I tore that photograph up in horror; John Wilkes Booth had just shot the President.
And now, at last, we were turning our sights to Europe. Our company remained the same, including Mr. Bleeker as manager, and his dear wife, Julia, who mothered Minnie and me in the best possible way, proving to be a boon companion and loyal friend as well as an experienced seamstress. We also employed Mr. Kellogg as treasurer (the poor man developed a nervous tic; as there were so few banks in those days, he practically slept with our proceeds under his pillow at night, forever fearful of robbers!); Mr. Davis, who assisted Mr. Bleeker; Mr. Richardson, our pianist; Rodney Nutt, George’s brother, who served as footman and groom for our small Shetland ponies; and Mr. Keeler, who did everything else that needed to be done.
There was one member, however, whom we had to leave behind, and whose replacement we would not meet until after we crossed the Atlantic. It was the very smallest person in a troupe of very small people, and it was the person whom Minnie was so eager to meet, as the City of Washington steamed its way down the Hudson toward open sea.
“Do you, Vinnie? Do you think we’ll like the new baby?” Minnie asked again, as the stewardess left our stateroom with a curtsy and a wish, in a strong Irish brogue, that we “have safe travels, wee that ye are, mind that you don’t get swept overboard!”
“I imagine we’ll like it. We liked the other one well enough.” I shrugged; I had not gotten too attached to the previous infant, regarding it as simply another prop I had to use onstage. However, both Charles and Minnie had become alarmingly attached, and I had warned Mr. Barnum that this would happen.
This, then, was the last thing I owed him, the last price—or so I thought at the time—that I had to pay for my carelessness regarding Colonel Wood: I had to agree to participate in one colossal humbug, the biggest one of them all.
I had to pretend that I was the mother of an infant daughter. I had to allow Mr. Barnum to fill the papers with the news that General Tom Thumb and his wife, Mrs. Stratton, were the proud parents of an infant daughter, as yet unnamed. I had to accept the mountains of cards and letters of congratulations, the acres of miniature blankets and nightgowns that would not cover a chipmunk, let alone an infant, but the public, naturally, assumed our child was of fairylike proportions. Mrs. Astor sent an exquisite miniature cradle; Mrs. Vanderbilt, a tiny christening gown.
We borrowed a baby. How callous that sounds now! But Mr. Barnum persuaded me to pose with a foundling—a very small one—that he had personally selected from a charity hospital. In Mr. Mathew Brady’s studio, just across the street from the Museum, I sat holding that infant, who was beribboned and beruffled in borrowed baby finery (for the things given to us were much too small), smiling at Mr. Brady’s camera.
The child, I must say, was well behaved, although rather heavy for me; by the time we were done, the crook of my arm ached.
In our last few appearances at the Museum, in preparation for our European tour, we had introduced our “child” to the public. “Miss General Tom Thumb,” she was called, as I paraded her about the stage; no one thought to christen her with a first name. Although I suppose this made it easier to return her to the hospital, as if she were a pair of shoes that did not fit, on the eve of our sailing.
Easier for me, at any rate; not for Minnie, and not for Charles, either. They both grew quite fond of the child, who was cared for by a hired nurse when we weren’t performing. Charles had so enjoyed playing with her; he dangled his watch chain above her until she gurgled and cooed; he tickled her; he sang her songs.
And Minnie, who loved all children, who still traveled with a doll although she no longer played with it, well—she had cried and cried when we had to give the baby back, kissing the infant until I was alarmed that she might smother her.
She had tears in her eyes now, as she thought of it. “She was such a little thing. I hope someone good takes care of her. It seems so sad to give her up like that.”
“I know, but it’s much easier to get a new child when we land. Traveling on a boat would not be fun for an infant—and besides, Mr. Barnum felt that that baby was getting too big. Babies will grow, of course.”
“But Vinnie, don’t you miss her? Don’t you want a baby of your own? One you’ll never have to give back?”
I stopped in the middle of arranging some flowers that had been sent to our room by General Winfield Scott, conveying his best wishes for a safe voyage. The boat was starting to rock a bit, as we must have been heading out through the Narrows. And although I was a very good sailor, my stomach lurched at that moment, as I contemplated the notion of ever having a baby. It was still the one thing that could make me have nightmares. Always, it was a dream of blood and pain and cries and finally—nothing.
I wanted to cry out, “No! No, I never want a child, and neither do you!” But I knew it would hurt Minnie, who loved children so; I didn’t want her to think I was as coldhearted as I really was. So instead I answered, “Of course, Minnie. But wanting a baby isn’t the same as actually having one. And you know—I’ve told you, darling, remember?—that I can’t.”
“But Charles wants a baby, I know he does. He told me. Oh, poor Charles!”
“Poor Charles will be just fine. And in the meantime, we can all play with the new baby, and care for it, and I imagine it will be a very nice one, at that. Perhaps, since we’re getting it in France, it will even cry with an accent!” I smiled, coaxingly, at my sister. She looked so pretty in her new traveling dress, nearly identical to mine, which was black satin while hers was brown. We both had such lovely wardrobes for this trip, smart cloaks and fur caps and muffs, so many pairs of gloves I couldn’t imagine ever running out, but of course knew that I would. I always ran out of gloves, at an appalling rate; I simply shook far too many hands. My husband might kiss every lady he met—and he did, much to my annoyance—but I shook the hands of them all, plus their husbands. And my supply of gloves could not keep up.
Minnie’s dark eyes twinkled at the thought of a baby crying in French, even as tears still rolled down her cheeks. She laughed, just as I’d hoped she would, her little dimple showing. And I relaxed—for the moment, anyway—and proposed that we dress for dinner.
I have fond memories of that first journey across the ocean. The weather was fine much of the time, and, dragging my steps with me wherever I went, I was able to look over the railing, marveling at the whitecaps, the seagulls that followed us like a noisy white cloud, the occasional whale surfacing perilously close to the boat, so much more thrilling to see than the poor whale in his tub back at the Museum!
In particular, I enjoyed the brisk, salty slap of wind against my face. I timed it so that I would walk out, bareheaded, stairs in hand, toward the prow of the ship just when the winds were fiercest; the sailors at first were amused, but soon enough they ignored me. I would climb my stairs—well away from the rail—and face the wind with gritted teeth and shut eyes, welcoming that first harsh sting against my soft, protected skin that had never been without a hat, bonnet, or veil. Invariably, it brought tears to my eyes—welcome tears.
For I needed to be punished. I needed to atone for what I had done and for what I still must do, as Minnie continued her discussions of the new baby and even knitted a blanket for it. I deserved every slap in the face that the cold North Atlantic winds could give me. I deserved more, even. But I had to content myself with that.
LANDING IN LIVERPOOL, WE SPENT THE NIGHT AT LINN’S WATERLOO Hotel, thinking that we would make a very quiet journey on to London the next day. The next day, however, was Mayor’s Day, and the city was thronged with sightseers eager to see the grand parade. So loud were the crowds that we ran to our balconies to see what was happening; in a flash, the crowd had turned toward us and was waving and shouting its welcome.
“Well, if it isn’t Tom Thumb and his little bride!”
“Welcome back, General!”
“ ’Ope you ’ad a safe crossing!”
Soon the street in front of our balcony was thoroughly blocked—and so was the mayor’s parade! We retired quickly inside our suite so that the parade could continue, although the cheering for us resounded unabated.
This was just a glimpse of the extraordinary adoration we found waiting for us all through the rest of our trip. I had dreamed and dreamed of this moment, and was not disappointed. To see, with my own eyes, the places I had read of in my history books was an experience I will always cherish.
From Liverpool we journeyed to London. There we were guests of the Prince and Princess of Wales at Marlborough House. The Prince and Charles shared a touching reunion, as the Prince had been a boy the time Charles visited his mother the Queen in 1847, and remembered him well. He also remembered being sent up to bed much too soon; fancy, the future King of England being sent up to bed just like any boy!
The Princess of Wales, a stunning dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty with the tiniest waist I’d ever seen, did not say a great deal; I felt she was not very confident of her English, since she was of Dutch ancestry. However, she did not have to speak; her beauty was more than enough contribution to our pleasure, Charles’s and mine. (Minnie and Commodore Nutt did not join us; they were not always invited where we were, and while Minnie never minded, I’m afraid Commodore Nutt did. His impish, elfin face could scrunch itself up into petulance so swiftly, as if it were made of rubber. Indeed, he threatened, many times, to go off by himself at night and find his own fun. This worried good Mr. Bleeker so that I’m quite sure he spent more than one night camped out before the Commodore’s door as a precaution!)
While I truly felt bad for Minnie and the Commodore, my spirits could not be dampened, and at times I had to refrain from pinching myself. Was it possible that I, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump Stratton, was having tea with the future King and Queen of England? “Mrs. General,” they both called me, with all the deference I could wish for; I addressed them as “Your Royal Highness,” and returned the favor, curtsying deeply whenever we met.
Oh, if only that sour-faced Mrs. Putnam could see!
After a brief stay in London, we prepared for the first real destination of our tour, Paris. In December of 1864 we took the famous ferry across the channel and landed at Calais, that cold, empty-looking city.
Calais happened to have a charity hospital, though, and upon landing, Mrs. Bleeker went directly there, as instructed by Mr. Barnum. He had contributed enough money to ensure discretion in the matter. Mrs. Bleeker came back to our hotel with a cherubic infant girl, whom Minnie clasped to her childlike bosom immediately. But the stern English nursemaid we had engaged took the child away, saying grimly, “There’s nothing worse for a child than to be coddled and cosseted! Mrs. Stratton, Ma’am, if you please, I think I know what’s best.”
“I’m sure you do,” I replied with relief. After that, I saw the child only during performances, although once more, both Minnie and Charles snuck into the temporary nursery whenever the maid’s back was turned.
It was in France that I came to rely upon Charles for the first time in our marriage. So far in our life together, I had felt it natural to assume some kind of position of direction, and indeed, Charles seemed relieved to rely upon my judgment and good sense. He was a seasoned performer, yes—far more seasoned than I. But regarding the ways of the world, I felt my life upon the river equipped me to deal with them in a far more practical way than he could. After all, he had been sheltered by Mr. Barnum from the time he was five until the time of our marriage.
Charles, however, was the only one of our party who spoke French. And so, faced with that slippery language that would not stay upon my tongue no matter how much I tried, I found myself turning, more and more, to him for direction. He made all our travel arrangements to Paris, with the assistance of Mr. Bleeker; he ordered for us all the few times we ventured out into restaurants. Every morning when we gathered for breakfast in Mr. and Mrs. Bleeker’s hotel suite, Charles translated out loud all the newspaper accounts of our visit. Some mornings he had to read to us for what seemed like hours, so numerous were our notices! Accounts of my wardrobe, Charles’s cigars, our every stroll and dinner—each detail was devoured by our French admirers.
The notices were even more numerous when we were summoned to appear at court, for this was before the Republic; the Emperor Napoléon III and his exquisite wife, the Empress Eugénie, were on the throne. And while I was delighted by the pageantry—the beautiful Worth gowns on every attending lady, the glittering jewels adorning the Empress’s scandalously low-cut neckline—all I could do was smile and nod. I had to rely on Charles to speak for me, for the very first time.
I must admit that I was proud of him. The manners and courtliness that he had learned, even before his letters, as a child traveling on the Continent served him well; that mind that had absorbed everything that Mr. Barnum had taught him when only a child of five was on display. Reader, I’ll not pretend that I ever felt Charles to be my intellectual equal. I’ll even go so far as to admit to some feelings of frustration over my husband’s immature ways—his habit of simply repeating what others said while conversing about politics or music or art, rather than forming his own opinion; his eagerness to introduce himself with a full recitation of the places he’d seen and the people he’d met; his gullibility, for my husband would believe every tall tale ever told to him, every pipe dream sold, every pot of gold promised.
But in Paris, I was finally able to find more things to appreciate about him. After our invitation to the palace, our success was assured in that gray city (for that was how I remembered it; we were there in winter, and every building, sidewalk, street, and even the sky all seemed the same gunmetal gray to me). I may not have been able to understand the language, but there was no mistaking the interest in the throngs and throngs that we encountered whenever we attempted to leave our hotel. It grew tiresome; it was much too difficult to navigate the narrow Paris streets hemmed in on every side, ears assaulted by the excitable Gallic language. I was quite accustomed to being stared at and pointed to, but hearing myself discussed in a language I could not understand began to wear on my nerves.
The crowds were so pressing that when we tried to go see Napoléon I’s tomb, we had to turn around after just a few blocks and return to our hotel. So it was that Charles and I found ourselves spending long, lonely afternoons together. Minnie was usually with the infant, and Nutt was usually off with one of his conquests—one of his many conquests, if his boasts were to be believed—so it was just the two of us. One of my talents long being an aptitude for fine embroidery, I began to teach Charles. To my surprise, he took it up very quickly and soon proved himself even superior to me—and he did not mind Nutt’s teasing about it, or even Mr. Bleeker’s gentle jokes. Charles retorted that a man had to occupy himself somehow, and this way he’d have something useful to show for it. And indeed, he embroidered many seat covers and pillows and fireplace screens that I still use to this day.
It touched me to see him so intent upon choosing thread of the right hue or a perfect needle. His head bent over his work, his tongue sticking out between his teeth, he was the very picture of virtuous industry. He tugged at that reluctant heart of mine, almost as if he had embroidered himself to a very small, remote corner of it. I don’t believe I ever liked my husband as much as I did during our time in Paris.
Yet most of our marriage was still spent upon the stage; whether or not they could understand us, the enthusiastic Paris audiences always applauded ecstatically. Our act was the same as it had been at home, except that we no longer reenacted our wedding. Our wedding clothes were on display before the performance, but now I ended the show by bringing out the child (whose name I still had not learned), doing my best to smile maternally, while in reality, I trembled with fear.
I may have been able to face down a crowd of Rebels to get passageway home from the South, but when called upon to care for an actual infant, I admit to some cowardice. It, or rather, she, proved to be very wiggly indeed; squirming, waving clenched fists in the air, so close to my face they almost hit my nose, blinking her eyes against the bright gaslights. Automatically I tightened my grasp about her; this wriggling, live thing in my arms reminding me of the time I had dressed up a baby pig in doll clothes, back when I was a girl. The pig had shot out of my arm like it was greased, landing with a sickening thump on the floor, where it lay for a moment, stunned, before it shook its head and ran squealing off, dragging its clothing behind. I was most afraid the same thing would happen now.
After what seemed an interminable amount of time walking the perimeter of the stage with this fussing child in my arms, holding it up, laying my cheek against it, while the audience oohed and ahhed, I very gratefully handed it off to Minnie, who was standing in the wings with her arms greedily outstretched. Then Charles joined me onstage and together we danced around to the strains of “The Tom Thumb Polka,” one of the many songs that had been written in honor of our marriage.
Finally, the curtain came down; we repeated this at least three times a day.
Our notices were rapturous; we were the “crème de la crème.” Soon there were dolls, songs, greeting cards featuring “M. et Mme. Tom Pouce” all over the city.
Mr. Barnum sent us huge bouquets and cabled us his congratulations—ending with what almost seemed an afterthought. Queen Victoria had asked, once we returned to London, he wrote, if we would come to tea. The Queen was quite fond of babies, of course; would we mind bringing our precious daughter with us, so that Her Majesty could see her and give her a gift?
I stared at the telegram, paralyzed. When I had agreed to this humbug, it was onstage only—or posing for photographs. I had never imagined that I might have to play the part of mother up close, where others could see how ill equipped, how terrified, I was.
“Minnie! Oh, Minnie, you must help me!” I ran to find my sister; Charles said she was in the child’s bedroom while the nursemaid was having her dinner. Then I had to ask him where the child’s bedroom was; he pointed down the hall, and I burst into the room. “Minnie, I need your—oh!”
Minnie, who was kneeling on the floor next to the cradle, rocking it gently with a beautiful smile upon her face, looked up. “What is it, Vinnie? What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t know—why, it’s so pretty in here! Who did all this?”
For this room, unlike the other stuffy rooms in our suite, was utterly lovely. Scattered around were dolls—several that I recognized as Minnie’s—and watercolors of animals and cherubs. Pastel scarves were draped over the lamps, softening the light. Simple vases of posies graced the tables and mantel, and a stuffed white lamb perched on a rocking chair. The whole effect was one of peace and security—exactly how a nursery should feel. It had never once occurred to me to make sure that the infant had appropriate surroundings; it had never occurred to me to buy any toys for it, or to check to make sure the nurse wasn’t harming it in some way.
“I did,” replied Minnie. “I hope you don’t mind, Vinnie, but Mrs. Bleeker took me shopping one afternoon when you were out, and I picked everything out for Cosette. That’s what we named her—Cosette—because the poor thing didn’t have a real name. And everyone deserves a name, don’t you think?”
Minnie looked at me so anxiously, wanting to be right. And, of course, she was. Everyone deserves a name.
Even a foundling child who was beginning life as a stage prop.
“Yes, darling, of course. And Cosette is a beautiful name. Now, could you help me, please, dear? I need to—that is, I want to—learn how to hold her better, how to care for her, just a little, just enough to pretend—I think it would be good for me to learn, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, Vinnie! You do hold her awfully strangely. You never did play with dolls when you were little, did you?”
“No,” I admitted ruefully, gathering up my hoopskirt and joining Minnie on the floor. The fire in the hearth, just behind us, crackled and popped. The room was scented with lavender and powder. The child in the cradle was sleeping peacefully, her little eyes scrunched up; she had long black eyelashes and black curling hair. She could have easily passed for Minnie’s child, so identically sweet and untroubled were their countenances.
But that was absurd, of course. My baby sister could not have a baby. I suppressed a laugh at the very idea.
“Now, watch what I do,” Minnie instructed me, and then I did have to smile. She had never instructed me in anything before; it was such an odd reversal of roles. I led, she followed; that was the way it had always been. Since when had she become such a serious little grown-up?
Minnie reached into the cradle, placing one tiny hand—much tinier than mine; Minnie was so petite and delicate, her hoop-skirts often threatened to swallow her whole—beneath the child’s head, the other beneath her back. Then she gently scooped it—her—Cosette—up from the cradle, and clasped her, reverently, to her chest. The motion was so fluid, so instinctive, that it looked like part of a dance. The child, small as she was, really was too big for Minnie, but my sister did not appear to notice; she simply rocked the child, easily, naturally, against her chest. As if the weight of the child in her arms had triggered some hidden switch, Minnie began to sing softly, to murmur words and phrases that I could not completely understand, but they were soothing and melodious, like the echoing fragments of songs long after they were finished.
“How do you do that?” I whispered, truly in awe; it was almost as if I was in church, with a real life Madonna and child before me. Minnie’s face, with her halo of tangled curls, was lit up from behind by the glow of the fire, so that the only thing you could see was her cameo profile as she bent her head toward Cosette’s.
“I don’t know, I just do. I don’t even think about it. Oh, Vinnie, can’t we keep her? Can’t we?” Despite her passion, Minnie’s voice never rose above a whisper as she continued to rock the infant.
“Minnie, I just don’t see how. I would love to, truly, but arrangements are arrangements, and it’s for the best. This is no life for a baby.”
“It could be. I’d help, you know! I’d do everything; I wouldn’t mind a bit. I don’t need to be before the public like you. I’d much prefer to stay behind stage and take care of Cosette—you wouldn’t even have to pay the nursemaid!”
“Oh, Minnie.” It was not in my nature to deny my sister anything, and I struggled against it, trying to sort out the thorny details. The child had no papers, not with our name on them. But would an actual child of ours? I didn’t even know. I supposed there would be a baptismal record at least; I knew that Mama kept all of ours in her family Bible. So that would have to be created, somehow. If we actually adopted it, would someone find that out? Or could Mr. Barnum cover it up? But what about later—when the child grew big? We couldn’t use her in the act then, could we? I couldn’t imagine how. But then, that wasn’t the point; Minnie was talking about real life: raising a child, caring for her, kissing her scraped knees, soothing her cries at night, worrying about her schooling, her future—all the things my own parents had done so well.
I couldn’t imagine it. Minnie couldn’t do it all by herself; I would have to be involved somehow, and I did not wish to be. That was it, pure and simple; my life was onstage, next to my husband, either reenacting a pretend wedding ceremony or holding a pretend infant.
I had no room for big love, big decisions, big messes, big happiness; not in this miniature life, spent under the magnifying glare of so many eyes, that I had made for myself.
“See how sweetly she’s sleeping, Vinnie?” Minnie whispered, bending closer to me; she leaned in to hand me the child, careful not to wake her up.
“No,” I said, recoiling, as if the child was a hex or a bad omen—something I did not want to touch for fear of how it might affect my future. Hastily I scrambled up from the floor, hiding my trembling hands behind my skirts. “No, no, I’m sorry but we’ll just have to take very good care of Cosette now.” I avoided Minnie’s surprised, hurt gaze. “And when the time comes, we must return her and trust that she will find a good family who will love her just as much.”
Minnie didn’t speak at first; she merely bent her head down to Cosette and kissed her on the tip of her snub nose. Then she looked up at me, so that I could not help but see the single tear rolling down her cheek; it continued to fall until it landed upon Cosette’s smooth, untroubled brow. “I don’t see how,” Minnie whispered, careful not to wake the child. “I don’t see how anyone can love her just as much as me. I don’t see how I can ever love any other baby just as much as Cosette.”
I turned away. I detested this whole charade. But I could see no way of ending it without exposing it—and Mr. Barnum, not to mention myself. I left the room with a bitter taste in my mouth and a bitterer stain on my soul, knowing that Minnie felt, in her sweet, susceptible heart, that what she had said was true; she could never love another baby as much as she loved Cosette.
I also knew that she would say the same thing again, in a few weeks, when we went to England. Only instead of Cosette, it would be Isabel. Or Alice, or Beatrice—or whatever she decided to name the next one. My sister’s heart was endlessly elastic, but I had to wonder, even then, how long she could go on mourning baby after baby after baby.
I also had to wonder why I, the mother in this particular play written by Mr. P. T. Barnum, never did. I never shed one tear over any of those infants—not until much, much later in my life.