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Mr. Fuller grumbled and departed again, contract unsigned but still in my possession; days later we received an invitation from Mr. Barnum to visit him in his home in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Thus it was that we three were on the train going west.

There was one more obstacle in the way, one more potentially dire than my parents’ objections, and one that I kept to myself: I was still technically under contract to Colonel Wood. After he had crept away in Louisville, I tried to assure myself that I would see him no more. Yet I couldn’t trust him, even though, for all I knew, the Colonel might be in the army, or a prisoner of war, or even dead, as thousands were, more and more every day. Although I disliked imagining that evil man clad in the glory of Yankee blue, just like my brothers.

“Do you think that Barnum will meet us at the station?” Mama fretted, patting her graying bun that peeked out of the back of her bonnet, so tightly wound and secured that no amount of train travel could disturb it.

“Mama, please, I beg of you, try to refrain from calling him ‘that Barnum.’ ”

“Mercy Lavinia Warren Bump, you know that I will address him in the most polite manner! Who do you think I am? Is this why you’re so eager to leave home again? Are you so ashamed of us?” Mama’s eyes began to water and tears rolled down her cheeks, leaving an oily trail of grime.

I sighed and handed her my unspoiled handkerchief. “No, Mama, of course not. I’m sorry—I’m just a trifle nervous, you see. I do so want to make a good impression.”

“You have no need to be nervous about that,” Mama replied with a sniff. “He’s the one who should be worried about making a good impression on us. He’s just a showman. You’re a descendent of one of the Mayflower Company!”

“Yes, Mama.” I had to smile; my mother’s righteous anger at the idea of a man such as that Barnum having to impress the Bump family was so powerful that it dried her tears and caused her to sit up so straight, her spine was a good six inches away from the back of the seat.

We passed the rest of the journey mostly in silence, after changing trains in Providence. It was late afternoon before we pulled into the Bridgeport station.

As we disembarked—Papa, his color returning to his usual ruddy hue, gently lifting me off the train onto the platform—a liveried coachman approached. He was clad in a dusky red driving jacket and a tall silk hat; when he reached us, he bowed smartly.

“Miss Bump?” He looked down at me, yet his face betrayed no surprise or amusement at my size.

“Yes?”

“With Mr. Barnum’s regards, Miss, I’m to take you and your family to Lindencroft in the carriage. Please come this way.” And he turned; we followed him through the crowded station to a waiting open carriage. It was black, polished to a gleam so high that we could see our reflections in it, with brass handles and hinges, a fine pair of chestnut horses, their harnesses also polished and gleaming in the sun. Papa handed me up into the carriage and we all settled in. The coachman climbed atop his perch and coaxed the horses into motion.

“What do you think so far, Mama?” I couldn’t help myself, but Mama had been so quiet ever since the coachman had greeted us. I knew she was impressed.

“I think Mr. Barnum affords a lovely carriage” was all she would allow.

Papa nodded, passing his hand over the seat next to him. “Real leather,” he said in tones usually reserved for church. “And them horses—a matched pair!”

I smiled and turned my attention to the streets of Bridgeport. We quickly passed through the business section and soon found ourselves on wide streets lined with gracious homes, bigger than any we had back in Middleborough. These were newer, in the more modern architectural style featuring ornately scrolled embellishments, cupolas, wide porches, two and even three stories high, all set back from the street on enormous, beautifully tended lawns. I glimpsed large carriage houses—some larger than our farmhouse!—set far back from the street. Occasionally we passed land