The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [58]
“How thoughtful!” she whispered, as if afraid someone might overhear. I tried not to smile at her nervousness, which had the effect of making my own disappear. “Should we tidy the room up?” she asked when we had finished our toilettes. She glanced nervously at the towels, which were no longer snowy white; the water in the basin was now a soupy gray.
“No,” I said; once again, I did not know how I knew that. But I did. Ever since we’d stepped foot in that magnificent carriage, I had instinctively known how to behave among such riches. My parents, however, did not; never had I seen them so unsure of themselves. I could not imagine either of them happily living in a mansion; Mama would wear herself out scrubbing all those marble floors, for she would never trust anyone else to clean them!
That did not mean, however, that I could not imagine living in a mansion myself. As we left the room, refreshed and presentable, the maid led us back down the wide carpeted staircase. With each step I felt my spine straighten, my head lift itself upon my neck until my chin was almost pointed straight up to the ceiling. I imagined myself in a Parisian ball gown—in a properly fitting corset!—descending a staircase like this to greet my guests. Despite the huge proportions of this house—the ceilings enormously tall, the woodwork deep, the windowpanes more expansive than any I’d ever seen—I did not feel overwhelmed. Rather, I felt every inch a great lady, expanding to match the generosity of her surroundings.
We were ushered into a library, where Papa was already seated next to a fireplace flanked by bookshelves; the polished grate was empty save for an enormous Oriental fan. He had a cigar in his hand, which he handled as gingerly as if it might suddenly turn into a snake and bite him. As soon as he saw Mama and me, he dropped it—fortunately, it was not lit—and shot from his chair.
“Vinnie!” he cried out in obvious relief; he said my name as if he had given up hope of ever saying it again.
“So this is the famously contrary Miss Bump, who would not sign her contract until she met me herself.” Another voice rang out; it was a wry, humorous voice. I heard laughter lurking behind it, kept just barely at bay.
From the depths of a high-backed wing chair, a man rose. He was a tall man; taller than Papa, who was not short. He had large hands, a fleshy nose, high forehead with luxurious graying curls, and bushy eyebrows. His lips were rather thin, held together in a crooked line that gave him a very whimsical look. His eyes, beneath those eyebrows, were piercing gray and alert, the most watchful eyes I’d ever seen. They were kindly, however: observant, wary, yet kindly. I sensed a light behind them, a twinkle that—like the laughter in his voice—was never far from the surface yet held firmly in check.
“I am Miss Bump,” I said, crossing toward this man and extending my hand without hesitation. “And am I to believe you are the equally famous Mr. Barnum?”
“That I am, that I am, indeed.” He took my hand solemnly, shook it, then suddenly bent down to peer directly into my face. His eyes were level with mine, so close that I could see myself reflected in them, and I had the startling, dizzy impression of a carnival, of colors and sounds and mirrors of every shape and size; of music, joyous, merry music tooted from horns and plucked by fiddles. How one man’s gaze could engage so many senses, I had no idea; I only knew his did. It nearly knocked the breath out of me; my heart did a riotous somersault as the back of my neck tickled with excitement, and I fought an undignified urge to giggle.
However, I managed to keep my composure. I looked back at him, meeting him halfway; for a long moment our gazes held. I do not know what he saw in mine, but it appeared to satisfy him; with a businesslike nod, he straightened up, shook hands with my mother, then motioned for us to take a seat. One chair had a footstool placed strategically in front of it; I knew it had been