The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [122]
“Yes, of course,” I told my sister, still holding her hand. I could not prevent myself from searching her, appraising her, top to bottom, as if she were a new broodmare Papa had decided to purchase; she was so very small, so delicate. As if made from wishes and dreams, not flesh and blood. Then I shut my eyes as a cold wave of terror washed over me: She must not have this child. She must not. For her, for me—giving life meant summoning death.
But I did not tell her this now; I simply sat and listened to her talk excitedly about the baby, how happy Charles would be, as he did love children so, how we all would love this child, we would all raise her together, she would be ours forever. And my heart twisted itself about in knots as guilt, recrimination, and fear all fought for possession of it. Neither one winning, but none leaving, either—each parked itself in my heart, setting up housekeeping. I knew they would never leave; I knew I would have to carry them all around forever.
She must not have this baby—the phrase repeated itself over and over, wearing such a sharp groove in my mind, I had to grit my teeth from the pain of it. I needed to talk to someone, I needed to figure this out, for that was what I did—I figured things out. I took action. I made plans. I kept my sister safe. I was all mind, not heart—
And there was only one person who understood that. There was only one person I could turn to.
AS THE TRAIN PULLED INTO BRIDGEPORT, I WONDERED HOW MANY times I had taken this journey. It was hard to keep track, for I had taken so very many journeys by now. Since returning, triumphantly and in a blaze of headlines, from our world tour in 1872, the General Tom Thumb Company had gone back out to revisit this country, telling stories of our travels; this was when Edward joined us. However, after that tour, Charles finally put his foot down; he was tired of mimicking people onstage and now wanted to mimic our Society friends by living a life of leisure.
So he bought a yacht, and a matching captain’s jacket and hat, recommended to him by Mr. Belmont; he bought horses—fast, expensive horses—and built fine stables for them; he bought me jewels, just as his friends Mr. Vanderbilt and Mr. Astor did for their wives; he ordered the finest cigars from Mr. Barnum’s man in New York. He built us our grand house in Middleborough, just across from Mama and Papa’s old homestead, and furnished it with the most exquisite furniture and carpets and draperies, much of it built specially for us. The stair steps were not steep, the windows were lower to the ground so that we might easily see out of them; there was even a special kitchen built with sinks and a stove only two feet off the ground.
It was all grand; it was all impressive. Middleborough twittered and preened whenever dear Caroline Astor came to visit, and even erected a sign at the town border proclaiming this the Home of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Stratton, or General and Mrs. Tom Thumb.
It was also less real to me than the flimsy scenery we carted around whenever we toured. I wasn’t the mimic that my husband was; while I could do a fair representation of a satisfied lady of the manor, I had yet to learn how to successfully impersonate a wife offstage. While my sister looked for ways to steal even more time with her husband, I made up excuses to spend less time with mine. A quick weekend up in New York, a jaunt over to Bridgeport; my blood always stirred with excitement even as my nerves relaxed in relief each time I boarded the train out of Middleborough.
Even today; even as I still felt—physically, as if I had been clubbed repeatedly—the blow of Minnie’s news. Yet I looked forward to traveling; even more did I look forward to seeing Mr. Barnum. I reached inside my reticule and took out a piece of pink chamois, rubbing it all over my face to take the shine and dirt off, just as we pulled into the station