The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [38]
But at the time, I managed not to betray my astonishment at the elegance of this establishment; indeed, I sailed through the door, clad in my most respectable gown, not one I would ever wear onstage but rather one of my church dresses, with matching bonnet, from home. It was a modest blue satin, with a high collar and black-velvet scallops along the hem and sleeves. With my head held high, I managed to give the appearance that I was quite at home in the ornate lobby, wallpapered and carpeted to a fault. Colonel Wood, however, could not maintain his composure. He stopped and gaped, forgetting to remove his hat. He looked cheap and gaudy, totally out of place, and I stared at him through new eyes, secure in my matchless deportment and bearing. Away from the boat, in such genteel surroundings, the unease he stirred in me melted away. He looked exactly what he was—a posturing, insignificant little man. And I felt exactly what I was—an elegant gentlewoman with superior breeding and appearance. A much larger personality, in every way.
Yet as soon as we were led to a little side parlor, where the Colonel left me with an admonition to “Remember, no hoity-toity airs—I’m not paying you to disappoint the customers,” that unease crept back. Nervously I paced around, trying to admire the ornately carved woodwork and plush carpeting. The furniture was all large and overstuffed, and I remembered, with a pang of despair, that my stair steps were back on the boat. Locating a footstool, I dragged it over to a chair so that I might be able to climb onto it with some dignity.
Anxious and unsettled, my composure having deserted me, I could not help but recall what Mrs. Billy Birch and Carlotta each had said to me before I left the boat.
Mrs. Billy had tucked a large stone in my hand. “Put this in your reticule,” she whispered, as Colonel Wood was hovering nearby. “Don’t be afraid to swing it at that Mr. Grant’s head if you need to!” I had accepted the unusual gift with gratitude, and tucked it into my reticule, thankful for its sudden heft.
Carlotta had summoned me to her room earlier. I did not usually visit her here; when we females gathered for our nightly gossip, it was generally in Mrs. Billy Birch’s room, which was neat and homey, with a spirit lamp for making tea.
Carlotta’s room, by contrast, was slovenly, her stockings and petticoats draped over every surface, all in need of repair or washing. I tried not to notice them; obviously she wasn’t bothered by the chaos, as she had no blush or apology as she handed me a small envelope. Opening it, I saw that it contained a grayish powdery substance.
“Prevention powders,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re so little, Vinnie, I don’t know what to tell you to do so that it don’t hurt. But you oughtn’t to be havin’ babies, so use these. Mix ’em with water and then douse yourself with them down there.” And she pointed to her—I still blush to recall—womanly parts.
“ ‘It’? What do you mean ‘it’? What might hurt?”
“It. Screwin’. I don’t know what the Colonel thinks these men are going to want to do to you in private, and God knows I hope it ain’t what I’m thinkin’, but just in case. You don’t want to have a baby, do you?”
“I—I—I have no earthly idea what to say!” And I didn’t; I sat down upon the floor, my legs suddenly giving out, and I stared up at the girl who, I saw, thought she was only being kind.
“I know your ma probably never told you these things. My own ma didn’t. But you’re such a little thing, and I feel like someone ought. You do know what screwin’ is, don’t you?” She frowned in concern, her crow’s-feet crinkling up; against her sallow skin, bare of the cheap paint she used onstage, her yellow hair