The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [121]
“I’m afraid that I won’t be able to go back out on tour, if you were planning anything for this winter. Nor will I be able to go anywhere in the summer, either.”
“I have no plans at the moment, but may I ask, dearest, why?” I brushed the back of her hand—so much smaller, even, than mine!—lightly, possessively; I was always reaching for her these days, clutching her hand, tugging at her skirts—trying, perhaps, to keep her from drifting further and further away?
Still smiling, I expected Minnie to answer something innocuous, something adorable, like “We decided to get a puppy” or “Edward has a terrible cold” or “I don’t like trains, they’re so dreadful.”
Instead, her eyes lit up with a soft glow, a glow that I had seen in her once before. I couldn’t quite remember when; I knew only that I recognized it, and a troubled, vaguely shameful feeling began to stir within my breast. As I struggled to recall the circumstances—as you do when you’re trying to remember a particularly terrible dream in the safe light of day—Minnie said, with a shy duck of her head, “I’m going to have a baby.”
I stared at her for a long moment, the words bouncing around in my brain but refusing to fall into place, making absolutely no sense. Then, with frightening finality, they did click into meaning; my nightmare was recalled to me, that whole horrible, dreadful business of the baby, and the way Minnie had looked when she had held the French child—Cosette, wasn’t it?—in her arms. That same contented, dreamy look was in her eyes now as she raised them, uncertainly, to meet mine.
“No!” I let go of her hands, as if she were contagious, as if having a baby was a disease that I could catch from her touch. “No! Impossible! No!”
“Not impossible,” Minnie said with a brave little laugh. “Entirely possible, I’m quite sure. I’ve just had the doctor, who confirmed it. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Edward. I wanted you to be the first to know.”
“But how? But, Minnie, you—and Edward?” I was shocked, sickened. Yes, my sister was married. But so was I. I knew she and Edward shared a bed, but—didn’t she know the dangers of allowing a man to touch her, she who was so delicate, so vulnerable—even more vulnerable than me?
“Oh, it would be dreadful, impossible,” I heard my mother’s stricken voice from across the ages. “Don’t you remember the little cow …” Didn’t Minnie know? Didn’t she understand how dangerous it was for her to even consider having a child?
No, she didn’t. Because I had never thought to tell her—not even when she married Edward. For so long, my fears were her fears, her fears were mine, and I thought I could protect us both. But Minnie had changed, Minnie had grown—Minnie had become a real woman. Not simply a woman in miniature, like me.
“But, Vinnie, of course it’s a perfectly natural thing, and I know how sad you’ve always been that you couldn’t have a child. And just think of it—we won’t have to give it back! This will be our child—for, of course, she will be just as much yours as she will be mine, as I’m sure I will need your help. She! Isn’t that funny, Vinnie? I already think of it as a girl!” And Minnie laughed, all seriousness, all gravity gone from her eyes so that they were the impish—innocent—eyes of the sister I thought I knew.
“Minnie, listen to me.” I grabbed her hand again and held it tight; too tight, for she winced. “How far—how far along are you?”
“The doctor said nearly three months, he thought.”
“Three months.” I searched my memory, my vast storehouse of knowledge gleaned from a life so different from hers; the words prevention powders were recalled from some dusty, neglected corner of my brain. Carlotta—Carlotta, that poor girl from Colonel Wood’s boat—she had tried to give me those prior to my first private audience. What were they again? How did one use them?
“He also admitted it’s hard to tell,” Minnie continued, happily unaware of my thoughts. “Of course, Dr. Mills said the child will be tiny—as tiny as me!”
“But, Minnie, you—” I stopped.