The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [57]
As we passed so many houses, each one seemingly grander than the one before, I sensed that the coachman was taking us down the most picturesque streets. Mama’s constant exclamations of “Oh, my,” and Papa’s involuntary utterances of “Will you look at that?” were growing wearisome to me; as impressed as I was by the beautiful homes and streets of Bridgeport, they were not the reason I had come.
“That house there, to the right, is the home of Mr. Charles Stratton himself. Or as you may know him, Tom Thumb,” the coachman called over his shoulder, slowing the horses down to a stately walk. As this was the one time he had pointed out a home’s ownership, I was suddenly very sure that he had driven this way deliberately.
Papa and Mama both twisted in their seats to get a better look. I remained where I was for a moment, impatience to reach our destination rooting me to my seat. But finally I, too, turned to look.
It was a fine home. That was all I would say for it at the moment. It was three stories with a cupola, a wide lawn, an inviting porch. It was very grand, very big, and if I was meant to be impressed by it and by the implication that if I signed with Mr. Barnum I, too, might one day live on such an estate, I suppose I was.
But I was also annoyed by this transparent sales technique. I felt it in poor taste. Turning back around, I instructed the driver, curtly, to please continue to Mr. Barnum’s home.
“Yes, Miss,” he said apologetically. Then he flicked the reins and we trotted off again. Ten minutes later we pulled into a gated circular drive, the coachman saying, with unmistakable pride in his tone, “Welcome to Lindencroft.”
We had driven up to a set of granite stepping-stones so tall, I could exit the carriage without assistance. Once I alighted, I shook my skirts out—dust flying everywhere, fine grains captured in the sunlight—and surveyed my surroundings. The lawn was manicured, with a circular pool embellished with a statue of Poseidon in the middle. The house itself was grand but not ostentatious; I’d certainly seen larger, more elaborate homes on the drive over.
It was built of buff-colored stone, three stories high, with ornately carved cornices. A deep porch was framed by columns, and wide marble steps led up to the imposing front door.
Mama and Papa didn’t say a word; none of us had ever been to a house this fine before, but somehow I felt they looked to me to take the lead. Both hung back just a little; I felt their country shyness acutely, and resolved to ease their minds.
“This way,” I said with determination. And I walked up the porch steps—rather steep for me, but I would not falter—and motioned for Papa to tug the velvet rope hanging to the right of the door; when he did, a deep gong sounded.
“Well, I never!” He stepped back in alarm, dropping the rope as if it had scorched his hands.
“It’s only a bell to summon the maid,” I told my father, although I did not know how I knew that. I simply did.
Sure enough, an aproned and capped young woman opened the door; I gave her our names, and she ushered us inside to the cool interior. We blinked at the sudden change in light; inside the house, all was dark: darkly paneled walls, polished wooden floors, shutters and drapes keeping out the summer heat.
“I’ll show you to a room where you can freshen up,” the maid whispered to Mama and me; Mama clutched my arm gratefully, for I knew she was worried about her disheveled appearance. After showing Papa into one of the rooms opening up to the main hall, the maid led us up a grand staircase, kindly slowing her steps to accommodate mine; she ushered us into a bedroom where pitchers of water, basins, and the finest of linen towels and cloths were waiting on a shining dressing table arrayed with pins, hairbrushes, and a clothes brush. She withdrew, and Mama and I fell upon the water as if we’d just been rescued from the desert, washing our faces, our hands, tidying up our hair, brushing each other’s dresses off. Mama pointed to a stool that had been