The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [92]
The pleasure of the company of the esteemed General Charles Stratton and his very popular wife Lavinia Warren Stratton is requested by their friend Mr. Phineas Taylor Barnum, that is, should the Astors, Belmonts, Depews, and Roosevelts decide they can spare them for a few minutes this afternoon. While Mr. Barnum has nothing to recommend him but his friendship and kind regard (as well as a contract), nevertheless, he would greatly appreciate it if the General and his Lady would deign to come down to a little establishment called the American Museum (perhaps they have heard of it?) to discuss matters that might be mutually beneficial. The visit will not take long and soon enough, the esteemed couple will be back breathing the rarified air of Mt. Olympus—also known as the St. Nicholas Hotel—and cavorting with their fellow gods and goddesses on Fifth Avenue.
Sincerely, Citizen Barnum
“Charles!” I showed the letter to my husband, who was in his bedroom, being fitted for a new suit, as he simply did not have enough to keep up with our social engagements.
“Old Phineas!” Charles read the letter and laughed, which made the tailor—a thin Italian man with a scolding look and ever-flapping hands—drop his tape measure in disgust.
“I suppose we have been neglecting him. I’ll send word that we’ll be there this afternoon.”
“Will we be back in time for dinner with the Vanderbilts?”
“Yes, dear,” I said distractedly, as I mentally went through my wardrobe; the pink satin had a tear where someone had stepped upon my train (people were always stepping upon my train); the green silk was clean, but I’d worn it just last week. The gray flowered satin with the lace overskirt might do well. And had my new order of gloves arrived? I certainly hoped so, for I could not dine out without gloves, and I simply could not send my maid out to Stewart’s to buy some; mine had to be custom-made.
“Make sure that you have a fresh shirt,” I reminded my husband. “And don’t forget that Mr. Vanderbilt likes Cuban cigars; you must bring him some tonight.”
“Yes, dear,” my husband said absentmindedly, as he began to fuss with the tailor over the fit of his jacket.
And I left him in his bedroom, while I went off to my own.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT, NOT EVEN WITH MY OWN EYES. THE FAMOUS General and Mrs. Tom Thumb—or is it Stratton only, these days?”
“Our friends call us General and Mrs. Stratton. So, too, may you, if you promise not to be vulgar.” I nodded regally, bestowing permission.
Mr. Barnum stared at me; then he allowed that twinkle in his eyes to sneak out from behind its gray curtain, and we all laughed.
“What a life you two are living now! Why, Charles, what’s this I hear about a yacht?”
“Mr. Belmont suggested I purchase one, and he invited us to race with him on the Sound this summer. I think it’s a good business decision, don’t you, Phineas?”
“I don’t know about a business decision—those things depreciate terribly. But it sure will look good, and I can use it in some publicity. So go ahead, enjoy yourself—or rather, selves. For I take it you’re not sitting at home while Charles is out smoking cigars in smoke-filled rooms, are you, Vinnie?”
“No, I’ve been so touched by how gracious Society has been to us, how eager they are to befriend us. Of course, being a Warren of Massachusetts does help, you know.” I sat up straight, tilted my nose—and caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection from one of the glass-encased bookshelves along Mr. Barnum’s office wall. Goodness, but I looked just like my mother! Stifling a cough, I turned away from my reflection.
“Society later, business first. No, actually—remember, I’m just a sentimental old father asking this—any notion of the pitter-patter of little feet? Very little feet, that is? You wouldn’t believe the letters we get here at the Museum, asking—we’ve even had baby blankets and toys sent in. Your adoring fans are most eager to see the most popular couple in America become the most popular family.”
Charles blushed, and I consulted my hands, folded primly