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“Might I not sing a little song?” I asked after a moment, as I tried to imagine what the morrow would be like. “That went over very well on the river.”

“I suppose.”

“I could sing ‘Home Sweet Home,’ ” I offered. “So everyone will know when to leave.”

“No.” He shook his head in a very decided way.

“Why not?”

“That was Jenny’s song. You must find another.”

I bit my lip, my stomach tightening in a curious way. I did not like the way he said “Jenny,” as if he had a right. I did not like the gleam that turned his eyes from gray to almost blue when he did so. I did not care for the way he stared into the fire and sighed, as if entangled in a memory.

Most of all, in some soft, womanly part of my heart—a part that I had not, until now, taken the time to explore with any frequency—I did not like the fact that no one had ever said my name in that way, that softly proprietary way.

“Fine,” I said grudgingly. “Then I’ll sing ‘Annie of the Vale.’ I’m told I sing it exceedingly well.”

Mr. Barnum smiled at me, nodding approvingly. “Good girl. I knew you’d come up with something right away. You’ve got a head on your shoulders, Vinnie. I’ve not met many your equal.”

I smiled back, basking in the glow of his approval, content to be admired for my mind.

For now.

INTERMISSION

From the New York Tribune, December 23, 1862

Yesterday we saw a very pretty and intelligent little lady at the St. Nicholas Hotel, in this city. This woman in miniature is twenty-one years of age, weighs twenty-nine pounds, thirty-two inches in height. She moves about the drawing-room with the grace and dignity of a queen, and yet she is entirely devoid of affectation, is modest and ladylike in her deportment. Her voice is soft and sweet, and she sings excellently well.

From The New York Times, December 23, 1862

We attended Miss Warren’s reception yesterday at the St. Nicholas. It was a festive gathering. All were paying court to a very beautiful, an exceedingly symmetrical, a remarkably well-developed, and an absolutely choice specimen of feminine humanity, whose silken tresses beautified and adorned a head, the top of which was not quite thirty-two inches from the floor. In other words, we saw a miniature woman—aye, and the queen of them.

[ EIGHT ]

Or, A Star Is Born

AND SO IT ALL CULMINATED IN ONE GRAND, GLORIOUS reception, successful beyond anything we could have imagined. Standing upon a small velvet-draped platform in the lovely parlor of the St. Nicholas Hotel, I softly cleared my throat, nodded to the pianist Mr. Barnum had secured for me, and began to sing.

I had shaken many hands, engaged in much conversation, discussed the myriad details of my wardrobe (at least, the details that a lady could discuss in public). I had posed for illustrators eager to sketch my likeness, I had answered questions about my family and ancestors (these, I surmised, were discreetly planted by Mr. Barnum, who was circling the edge of the crowd like a proud parent, careful not to take any attention away from me). All in all, I was an astonishing success. I knew it by the hum of approval in the room, the admiring glances; I knew it by Mr. Barnum’s unapologetic smile of pure, boyish glee. There was only one thing left to do, and that was to sing my song.

Fixing my gaze at some spot across the room—in the sudden yellow, flickering glare of the gaslights, which seemed to have been turned up to a blaze, I could not make out anything specific. Then I began to sing. Very softly at first, for it had been a long while since I had sung in public, and my voice was a little rusty and uncertain.

“The young stars are glowing … their clear light bestowing … their radiance fills the calm clear Summer night …”

All I could see were smiles around me; smiles from these men, serious professionals, but my singing, I could tell, brought them much pleasure and delight. So I sang even louder, my eyes adjusting to the light now.

“Come … come … come love, come … come ’ere the night torches pale …”

My vision cleared