The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [62]
Mr. Barnum fixed me with a bright, hard gaze, searching for the truth I was so obviously unwilling to speak. He found it; I’m sure he did, as he suddenly paled, then growled, the tip of his nose and his ears turning a dangerous red. He squashed his cigar down in the ashtray beside him with a violence I did not expect, then muttered something under his breath.
I hung my head, my face suffused with warmth; at that moment I could not meet his gaze. Yet when he finally spoke, it was with a voice so gentle, so careful, it reminded me of a child cradling a kitten. “Miss Bump, I’m sorry. I appreciate your delicacy in conveying this to me. When I spoke of the showboats being wild, I assure you—I had no idea of something of this nature, particularly happening to one so fine, so ladylike, as you. You have my word that nothing like that will ever happen, as long as you’re employed by me. You asked me how I intend to exhibit you—would you like to hear my plans?”
I nodded, still unable to look at him.
“As a lady. As a model lady, a lady of deportment, a lady deserving of every consideration, every finery. Do you remember Miss Jenny Lind?”
“Oh, yes!” I raised my face eagerly. “I do!”
“She was a model of womanhood.” He gestured to a painting I hadn’t noticed before; it hung on the opposite wall of the fireplace, and it was illuminated by a discreetly placed gaslight. It was of the Swedish Nightingale herself; a glorious portrait of a woman with softly waving brown hair, luminous eyes, in a virginal white dress. Mr. Barnum followed my gaze; I thought I saw a softer light in his eyes as they fell upon this portrait. I wondered at their relationship, and was surprised to feel a small prick of jealousy. I wanted, suddenly, someday, for someone to look at me in that reverent, adoring way.
“Miss Lind was—is—a model of womanhood, and that is how I displayed her—her voice, of course, was without parallel. That was always understood. But there are other fine singers, most of whom you’ve never heard, Miss Bump. Why is that? Because I decided to play up her modesty, her gentility, her virtue. No singer had ever been promoted in that way. I have something of the same in mind for you. That your size makes you different is not in question; why call attention to it only? But your manner, your intelligence, your family heritage—that makes you just as socially acceptable as Mrs. Astor or Mrs. Belmont. That is how I intend to present you to the public—as a perfect little lady, a gentlewoman, a Society woman. This is what people will remember about you.”
Tears stung my eyes as I listened to him; he had put into words what I myself had desired for so long. Yes, my height would be the first thing people noticed about me, but it would not be the last. Colonel Wood had never understood this very fine point; he had been such a rough, despicable man. I hoped never to have to utter his name again.
“Then I agree to work with you,” I told Mr. Barnum, holding my hand out to seal the bargain. He leaned forward and shook my hand heartily—not timidly, as most men did—and began to laugh.
“Of course,” I interrupted him coolly. “I will require a salary commensurate to a lady of my fine breeding. And a percentage of all souvenirs and cartes de visites sold.”
Mr. Barnum stopped laughing. He squinted at me with that bright, hard gaze. Then he laughed again, but not joyfully; just one short, rueful bark.
“Five percent is all I’ll give.”
“Ten.”
“Seven.”
“Eight, and I want to go to Europe first, to see the Queen, before I perform here. First-class passage, naturally.”
“Eight. And I’ll consider Europe. It worked for Charlie, back in the day. Our good patriotic citizens never fail to be impressed by a Royal stamp of approval, for some reason.”
“Deal,” I said, extending my hand once more.
“Deal.” Once more, he shook it. Then he leaned even closer to me, suddenly deadly serious. “But there’s something we need to settle right away, Miss