The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [27]
I began to speak, and I was careful to overenunciate my words, as I had often found myself doing when trying to help a confused pupil. The audience was that pupil. So was Colonel Wood. They needed to be educated; they needed to be taught—about me, Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, descendent of William the Conqueror and Richard Warren of the Mayflower Company.
“I assure you, I am neither a doll nor a windup toy. As Colonel Wood said, my name is Miss Bump, and I hope you enjoyed my song. Now, if you’ll permit me, I’d—”
“How tall are you?” the sweaty young man at the footlights interrupted, quite rudely. I had a good mind to ignore him, except that he was echoed by several others repeating the same question.
“Miss Bump is—” Colonel Wood began, but I cut him off with a glare; he returned it but did back away from the piano.
“My height is two feet, eight inches; thank you for inquiring.”
“How old are you? Why, you can’t be more’n four or five!” another voice rang out.
“While I do not believe it is polite to ask a lady her age, I am not yet eighteen.” To my surprise, this was received with a hoot of laughter.
“Almost eighteen, you say? Why, you must have a little fairy beau, then!” someone else exclaimed.
“Unfortunately, Miss Bump has yet to find anyone who measures up,” Colonel Wood replied quickly; the audience roared with laughter, while I could do nothing but stand there, the butt of their joke.
“Are those doll clothes you’re wearing?” This was from a female voice.
“No, I had them made, just as you do,” I replied before Colonel Wood could say something boorish. “Now, I would like to sing another song. Would you allow me?” For I was suddenly weary, unsteady on my feet, although I would not allow myself to show it; my body felt as battered as if I’d been run through a butter churn. I don’t know how long I’d been onstage, but it felt like a lifetime.
“You bet, little lady!” someone shouted, and there was a general stirring and creaking as people took their seats. It was a sound I would grow to recognize, the contented sound of an audience settling in, ready to be entertained. But at that moment, I noted it with only exquisite relief, for soon my humiliation would be over.
I nodded at Mr. James, who began the lively military introduction for “The Soldier’s Wedding.” With clenched fists, I held on to my skirts in an effort to keep myself from toppling over.
“Give me your hand, my own Jeanette …” I sang with determined force, and soon the audience was clapping along. Somehow I got through the song, I know not how, although Mr. James told me later that I had smiled the entire time. As soon as I was finished, I smoothed my skirts, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the keyboard, then the piano bench, then finally the floor; I couldn’t wait to leave that stage.
The roar started; from the back of the audience it came, a deafening sound that made me clasp my hands over my ears. It was applause, my first ovation, and it was a sound I would never forget. Utterly astounded, I somehow found the presence of mind to curtsy, my hand over my heart, as if I was, indeed, Miss Jenny Lind.
A little smile tickled my lips as I turned around to go back through the curtains, passing Colonel Wood. But that dastardly man actually kicked at me as I walked by, laughing to see me jump in fright.
“That’s not the last you’ve heard from me about that slap, little missy. I won’t be made a fool of on my own stage, especially not by a dwarf,” he hissed, before turning back around to quiet the still roaring audience.
I didn’t think I would make it through the curtains; my stomach suddenly seized, and I knew I had to find a chamber pot so I could purge myself of all the humiliation and disgust inside me. I ran, as fast as I could, backstage, past Sylvia and Billy Birch and the Tattooed Man who was preparing to go on, out the door to