The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [166]
“I’ll have you know, my pies are exceedingly light and delicious,” I replied primly.
“Who cares if they are? I can have any kind of pie I want, anytime I want. But if you had decided you were content with that accomplishment only, I would never have had the privilege of your friendship. And that, my dear, would be a tragedy.”
“No, it wouldn’t. You’d still have Jenny Lind, and Charles, and Jumbo, and your circus. You wouldn’t miss me at all.”
“Then why am I here, then? Why’d I come all the way from Bridgeport to godforsaken Middleborough, at the first sight of a letter from you? I hardly even opened it before I was packing my bag!”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, my tongue tied, for once. I felt as if I were on the edge of a grand discovery, something that would change the world—or, at least, my life.
“Because I missed you, you fool! I was wrong about something just now. I have been content, you know. Would you like me to tell you when?” Mr. Barnum’s voice was softer—shy, almost.
I nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
“Remember when you first came to New York? And we used to sit together in Caroline’s parlor and talk? Then I thought I was happy. I wasn’t used to talking over my plans and schemes with anyone else, but somehow—I just found myself talking them over with you. And I was happy.”
“So was I,” I whispered.
“And I’ve missed that, I’ve missed that so much. So don’t go talking about not living a big enough life, for you were big enough for me to miss, terribly. And that’s saying a lot, as I own an elephant. Several of them, in fact.”
“Me, too—oh, I’ve missed you, too!”
I couldn’t say more; he didn’t try. He acted, for the first time in his life, as if words truly were no longer necessary. I simply felt his understanding in the way he continued to hold my hands; the warmth of his grasp made its way somehow to my heart—which filled with satisfaction. Looking up, gazing into his eyes, I thought I recognized his heart, too; it was the light that I always saw there, finally revealed, fully, to me. I smiled in its illuminating glow, and the name that I had carried within me, for so long, finally found its way out of my suddenly open heart, and rushed toward that light.
“Phineas,” I whispered.
His eyes grew wide; a great, satisfied grin broke crooked across his face. And in that moment, I found what I had been searching for all my life. I saw happiness; I saw respect.
I saw love.
“So,” he said after a moment; he released my hands, and we settled into our respective chairs, knee to knee, eye to eye.
Heart to heart.
“Let me tell you about my latest idea.” He took out a cigar from his breast pocket. I reached for the matchbox on the table beside me, struck a match, and lit it for him. He leaned back in the chair and puffed away, satisfied.
“Is there a role in it for me?”
“It’s all about you. Opera, that’s the thing. Hear me out. A perfect, miniature opera company—what do you think about that?”
“Opera? That would take a lot of people, wouldn’t it?”
“It would, indeed. Have you heard of the little women over in New Hampshire? Sisters, they are; genteel, ladylike, although they can’t hold a candle to you. But they sing—that’s what I hear.”
“Opera,” I mused, mulling it over. Opera was all the rage now—and, of course, I could sing. I had always been told I had a lovely voice. “Tell me more.”
“You’ll be the leading lady. But imagine headlining your own troupe! I’ve even picked out a name, the Lilliputian Opera Company, starring Mrs. General Tom Thumb. What do you think?”
“I like it,” I said, nodding, turning it around in my head, waiting for it to click into place, to make sense—to get my heart racing again, wondering where all my train schedules were. Had I packed them away, like everything else? Oh, I certainly hoped not!
“I like it,” I repeated, smiling up at him. “I like it a lot, Phineas.”
“I knew you would,