• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“What do you know of fate? Of choices? You’re just a man—and men never have to pay for their choices like women do.” I started to rise, as did my voice, but Mr. Barnum reached for my arm. He continued to speak in a low, soothing tone, which maddened me; I was not a child.

“Vinnie, you can’t possibly mean that. We all have to pay for the choices we make—but come, let’s not quarrel. There’s no need for anger, especially on such a beautiful day.”

“Oh, beautiful day be damned.” I kicked at a daffodil, to make my point.

“Vinnie!”

“Do I shock you? Well, good. I want to. I want to shock God, too. Can’t you see I am angry? I’m angry with God—I’m angry with myself,” I muttered, still kicking at innocent daffodils, so mocking in their vivid, irrepressible cheer.

“Why on earth? It’s simply God’s—”

“Will? Oh, how sick I am of hearing God talked about in this house! I’m glad He gives Minnie comfort, but I’m not so easily tricked.”

“Call it Providence, then—but you’re still not responsible.”

“Oh, yes, I am! Do you know why? Let me tell you—let me finally tell someone!” Jumping to my feet, my hands clenched, I stood before him as honest as I had ever been with anyone—and as vulnerable. His hand was still upon my arm, but I felt it loosen its grip, recoiling as my confession spilled out of me.

“It’s not as if I couldn’t have children—the truth is I didn’t want to. I told Charles, I told you, I even told Minnie that I couldn’t, when the truth was, I was too terrified to try. So I never explained to Minnie about the dangers of childbirth for the two of us. And now look what’s happened!”

“But you—afraid? I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t—you never have.” I rushed on, desperate to unburden myself—even more desperate, for some reason, to burden him. “If you had, you never would have thought up that whole baby business. I’m angry with you, too!” I finally wriggled out of his grasp—or, rather, he let go.

“Me?” Mr. Barnum’s expression suddenly became alert and watchful; before my eyes, his soft, uneven features began to harden.

“Yes, you! Oh, if I’d only been honest with you about Colonel Wood! That was my fault, but then you—you forced me to bring Minnie along to pay my debt. And then that ridiculous humbug about the baby!”

“That baby business made us both a small fortune, if you’ll recall. All those cartes de visites sold! We made thousands. And you accepted the money, if my memory is to be trusted, without any hair tearing or breast beating.” The gray in his eyes turned to steel, and he clutched his walking stick as if he was trying not to use it as a weapon.

“I—well, we needed the money, the way Charles spends, but that’s not the point. It hurt people—it hurt Mama, because I’d told her I’d never let you do anything in my name that I didn’t approve.”

“Then why are you scolding me?”

“Because! Mama feared I’d lose my soul if I went with you, and I told her I wouldn’t, but now I have. But I don’t care about myself. I’m willing to accept my punishment, but, oh, that it has to be Minnie who pays! That’s what I can never forget or forgive, either of us.”

“Lavinia Warren Stratton, the conceit in you! I knew you had an ego, m’dear, but I had no idea you thought so much of yourself that you could buy and sell souls.” He barked a hard, withering laugh that set my teeth on edge.

“Talk about ego—is there anything in New York or Bridgeport that you haven’t plastered your name all over?” My eyes narrowed, considering him. We glared at each other for a long moment; everything else—the flowers, the bees, the lazy neighing of a horse in a nearby pasture—faded away until I was aware of only the rasp of his breathing, the pounding of my wrathful heart.

“Let’s not continue this line of discussion,” Mr. Barnum said with maddening calm. “Minnie would not be happy to know we were quarreling.”

“Oh, you have no idea what Minnie would like,” I snapped. I would not be soothed. “You don’t know her at all. You only want to make money off her, just like you do with