The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [78]
“Vinnie, that’s—that’s—”
But I would not listen to his protests. “That’s what? Appalling? Immoral? Illegal? Yet what you are proposing isn’t that very far off, is it? Is it?” I wrapped my arms about my shoulders, rocking myself, suddenly desperate for an answer, and not just any answer. The correct answer. I needed to know he was not like Colonel Wood, after all.
“Vinnie, excuse me for speaking plainly, but I sometimes forget that you have a heart. Now, don’t take offense!” Mr. Barnum raised his hand, anticipating my horrified protest. “I mean that as a compliment. Your mind is so sharp, you’re so terrifyingly intelligent and driven—well, you’re a lot like me, I like to think, which is why we get along so well. So please accept my apology, for I have no wish to cause you distress or pain; I’m not like that cousin of yours, who ought to be taken out and shot for the scoundrel that he is. We’ll not discuss the matter further. I truly believed you were enjoying the situation, the attention.”
Sniffing—trying to dab the cursed tears from my eyes, for, perversely, I had an intense desire for him not to see me as just another woman—I turned and stared out the window. He did the same thing, and we rode along in silence for a few minutes.
“I’ve seen it, too, you know,” I said at last, my voice thick with swallowed tears—and pride.
“Seen what?”
“I’ve seen the way people look at me when I’m with those two. I’ve seen the glances, heard the whispers, the ridiculous romantic sighs. Individually, we will all do well. But matched up, there is the possibility of something beyond what any of us have ever imagined. I’m not wrong, am I?” Finally I turned to face him, once again feeling composed, rational—just like him.
Mr. Barnum regarded me levelly. “No, Vinnie, you are not wrong. I’m very glad you understand this. I don’t believe either of the other two does, however, and that’s not a bad thing. They are both truly smitten with you; please don’t forget that—please don’t forget that you have a great deal of feminine charm. I may be good at selling, but I have yet to find a way to sell the heart on something it truly doesn’t want. I wish to goodness I had,” he grumbled, a sudden sadness in his voice. And I knew he was thinking of someone else; I knew, too, whom that someone was. I’d only ever seen him look so appealingly sad at one other person—
Jenny Lind, whose portrait he kept in his library, whose photograph he kept on his desk at the Museum. I turned away, sickened by my insight; oh, what good was a brain like mine if it didn’t allow me to have any illusions? For I knew he would never, ever look at me in this way. Yet—
Charles Stratton did.
“Charles and Nutt are smitten with me because neither has ever seen an attractive woman his own size before,” I muttered sourly.
“Again, Vinnie, don’t disparage yourself. Could it possibly be that they both simply enjoy being with you—as do I?” Mr. Barnum smiled at me, but there was no trace of longing or regret in it, and I decided, right then, never to look for that trace again. I was a busy woman; I had no time to keep looking for something I would never find.
“Very few people marry whom they truly want, do they?” I looked at him levelly. He did not contradict me.
Instead, he asked, “And so you do wish to marry?”
“I can see the benefits of a marriage like this, for a life such as I have chosen. It is a difficult life for a woman alone, even under your management.” I thought of how it had felt to have someone beside me as I signed my photographs and met notable strangers; I had felt a measure of safety that I had never experienced before. Also a measure of respectability: I would never again have to fear the likes of the anonymous man in New Orleans, if I were a married woman. “I think I could make it work,” I continued boldly, but couldn’t bring myself to look at him. “We all have to settle for something