The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [40]
“I thank you much for agreeing to meet us here,” Mr. Grant said pleasantly. “But the children did so want to see you, after we saw your photograph in the paper, and I couldn’t take them on a boat, you see—you understand.”
“Indeed,” I said coolly, as if there were no reason to take offense. Then I fell silent, as I could not begin to think what to say. I did not know them, after all. And I was not onstage, I could not break out into song. I had never been bashful in my life, but then nothing had ever prepared me for this; I had a wild impulse to shout that they were all “simply dreadful” and run out of the room. Only the thought of Colonel Wood, who must be hovering outside the door, prevented me from doing so.
“How tall is she, Papa?” one of the boys asked, and while his parents exchanged anxious looks, I was happy to hear his question. At least I could answer that.
“Thirty-two inches, which is how many feet, young man?” I could not help it; my teacher’s training came to the fore, and I looked at him sternly—although I had to smile when I saw his face pale and his eyes bulge.
“I—I—I don’t know?” He looked desperately at his father, who had an amused glint in his dark eyes.
“Two feet, eight inches,” I replied briskly. “You look old enough to know your mathematics!”
“For sure, for sure, son Frederick is lax with his schoolwork,” Mr. Grant chortled, slapping his knee. “Well done, Miss Bump! That you should know such a thing yourself!”
I swallowed my anger, continuing to smile politely. “Naturally I know such a thing, as I was a schoolteacher before coming west.”
“A schoolteacher!” Mrs. Grant almost dropped her child from her knee. “How can that be?”
“I was an excellent scholar and was asked to take over a classroom.”
“Extraordinary! Can you imagine your teacher being smaller than you, Nellie?” Mr. Grant addressed his daughter, for whom he obviously had a great fondness; he had sat with his arm about her shoulders from the moment they took their seats. She was a pretty thing, with long blond curls.
“No, Papa! I can’t! You’re really old enough to be a schoolteacher? How old are you?”
“Nellie, that’s not polite,” her mother scolded, and I exchanged a knowing look with her.
“Tell us more about yourself, Miss Bump, for that is why we wanted to meet you, after all.” Mr. Grant leaned back and removed a cigar from his pocket; I wrinkled my nose, for I found the smell of cigars distasteful—at home, Papa had smoked a pipe, which I much preferred—but I did not say anything. Instead, I gave a quick recitation of my life thus far; soon we were discussing the weather, the town of Galena, which was as new to the Grants as it was to me. They had recently moved there from St. Louis, I discovered, so that Mr. Grant could take over management of his father’s store.
Politics, naturally, were discussed. The presidential election of 1860 was only a few months away.
“I don’t really think too much of politics,” Mr. Grant admitted, his cigar spattering ash upon his trousers, which he did not notice, although Mrs. Grant did. “But I suppose I have to vote Republican. I can’t abide slavery, and I guess that Lincoln’s the best man to put an end to it, although at what cost, I don’t know.”
“Do you think there will be war?” I asked, just to be polite; the increasingly fierce tensions between the North and South did not trouble me and seemed not to affect our troupe as, of course, we moved freely up and down the Mississippi, crossing the Mason-Dixon Line without thought. Even so, I had noticed that more and more, lately, Billy Birch and his minstrels discussed the situation at mealtimes; they were, after all, men.
“If there is war, will you go, like you did before, Papa?” the oldest son said, scratching his nose.
“We won’t talk of this now,” his mother said hastily, before Mr. Grant could answer.
“Were you in the military?” I asked him.
“Yes, but that was long ago,” he replied evasively, stroking his beard. “Don’t know that anyone would want me back, anyway.