The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb - Melanie Benjamin [93]
“Vinnie says—Vinnie says she is unable to—Vinnie says that we should count our blessings and enjoy life, just the two of us,” poor Charles sputtered, his face reddening with each heartbeat.
I blushed as well; while I was not surprised that we were having this conversation with Mr. Barnum—nothing surprised me about him any longer—that did not mean I enjoyed it.
“I see. I’m sorry to hear that, Vinnie. You must be devastated,” Mr. Barnum murmured.
I could not return his sympathetic gaze. I knew I could not deceive him, as I had managed to deceive my husband.
I had told Charles, that first night, that I would never be able to have children. He was disappointed; he so loved children, and at first I felt much guilt in my deception.
But I could not silence the memory of that horrified gasp of Delia’s as she contemplated the little cow that had died. I also remembered something, something that was such a part of our family lore that we all ceased to understand the ramifications of it. But I had been a normal-size baby, as had Minnie. We were not fairy creatures at birth; we were healthy-size infants whose growth was not slowed in the womb but long after we had emerged from it. That was the fact I could not forget; that was the realization that had chilled me on our wedding night. I would die in childbirth, I knew it as well as I knew the freckle on the back of my left hand. It was a fact of me, one that was present at my own birth, the one part of me that needed fixing, but how? I simply was not made to bear children without great danger to myself. And so I told my husband that I could not—not that I would not. In my mind, they were one and the same.
As far as the physical aspect of our arrangement, well—I’m afraid I did not ask him how he felt about that. I told him that most couples did not share a bed, as they were together so much during the day; I think he believed me. And the times when we did have to share a bed—such as our wedding night, and naturally during our honeymoon tour, when every hotel had ridiculously provided us with the most enormous bed possible—I managed to pat him away after a quick embrace and kiss.
Did he have needs? Again, I did not ask him. Did I? My longings were of a more profound nature than simply skin against skin; they were for intimate conversations, long into the night; lazy days spent reading together, debating topics small and large.
They were for a union, but not merely of flesh. A union I would never have, and that was by my own design. But then again, it was not a fate that I had ever thought would be mine in the first place. And so, as time went on, my longing faded. As I hoped any longings that Charles possessed would as well.
“Well, that’s that, then.” Mr. Barnum sounded disappointed, as Charles and I exchanged uncomfortable glances. Then—deliberately avoiding my gaze—Mr. Barnum cleared his throat and said, “Charles, I promised Nutt you’d drop by and see how he’s doing. Poor fellow has been rather down lately. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that he was pining over Miss Minnie—I think he was quite smitten with her when she was up here. But why don’t you go see him? Vinnie can stay here and keep me company; it wouldn’t do to have her taunt the poor lad with her loveliness.”
Charles nodded eagerly and trotted off to seek Commodore Nutt. I watched him go, nervously; then I took a breath, summoning up my courage. I pulled my chair over to Mr. Barnum’s, and we sat knee to knee, eye to eye, just like old times.
“What is it? Why did you send Charles away? Is something wrong?”
“Not wrong, not exactly. But Vinnie, I have to say, I never thought I’d see the day when you would lie to me.”
“ ‘Lie’?” I colored; I truly did not wish to have this conversation with him. “Mr. Barnum, please, you must not make