The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (19 page)

“Well, I never!” He stepped back in alarm, dropping the rope as if it had scorched his hands.

“It’s only a bell to summon the maid,” I told my father, although I did not know how I knew that. I simply did.

Sure enough, an aproned and capped young woman opened the door; I gave her our names, and she ushered us inside to the cool interior. We blinked at the sudden change in light; inside the house, all was dark: darkly paneled walls, polished wooden floors, shutters and drapes keeping out the summer heat.

“I’ll show you to a room where you can freshen up,” the maid whispered to Mama and me; Mama clutched my arm gratefully, for I knew she was worried about her disheveled appearance. After showing Papa into one of the rooms opening up to the main hall, the maid led us up a grand staircase, kindly slowing her steps to accommodate mine; she ushered us into a bedroom where pitchers of water, basins, and the finest of linen towels and cloths were waiting on a shining dressing table arrayed with pins, hairbrushes, and a clothes brush. She withdrew, and Mama and I fell upon the water as if we’d just been rescued from the desert, washing our faces, our hands, tidying up our hair, brushing each other’s dresses off. Mama pointed to a stool that had been placed strategically in front of the dressing table so that I could reach everything myself.

“How thoughtful!” she whispered, as if afraid someone might overhear. I tried not to smile at her nervousness, which had the effect of making my own disappear. “Should we tidy the room up?” she asked when we had finished our toilettes. She glanced nervously at the towels, which were no longer snowy white; the water in the basin was now a soupy gray.

“No,” I said; once again, I did not know how I knew that. But I did. Ever since we’d stepped foot in that magnificent carriage, I had instinctively known how to behave among such riches. My parents, however, did not; never had I seen them so unsure of themselves. I could not imagine either of them happily living in a mansion; Mama would wear herself out scrubbing all those marble floors, for she would never trust anyone else to clean them!

That did not mean, however, that I could not imagine living in a mansion myself. As we left the room, refreshed and presentable, the maid led us back down the wide carpeted staircase. With each step I felt my spine straighten, my head lift itself upon my neck until my chin was almost pointed straight up to the ceiling. I imagined myself in a Parisian ball gown—in a properly fitting corset!—descending a staircase like this to greet my guests. Despite the huge proportions of this house—the ceilings enormously tall, the woodwork deep, the windowpanes more expansive than any I’d ever seen—I did not feel overwhelmed. Rather, I felt every inch a great lady, expanding to match the generosity of her surroundings.

We were ushered into a library, where Papa was already seated next to a fireplace flanked by bookshelves; the polished grate was empty save for an enormous Oriental fan. He had a cigar in his hand, which he handled as gingerly as if it might suddenly turn into a snake and bite him. As soon as he saw Mama and me, he dropped it—fortunately, it was not lit—and shot from his chair.

“Vinnie!” he cried out in obvious relief; he said my name as if he had given up hope of ever saying it again.

“So this is the famously contrary Miss Bump, who would not sign her contract until she met me herself.” Another voice rang out; it was a wry, humorous voice. I heard laughter lurking behind it, kept just barely at bay.

From the depths of a high-backed wing chair, a man rose. He was a tall man; taller than Papa, who was not short. He had large hands, a fleshy nose, high forehead with luxurious graying curls, and bushy eyebrows. His lips were rather thin, held together in a crooked line that gave him a very whimsical look. His eyes, beneath those eyebrows, were piercing gray and alert, the most watchful eyes I’d ever seen. They were kindly, however: observant,
wary, yet kindly. I sensed a light behind them, a twinkle that—like the laughter in his voice—was never far from the surface yet held firmly in check.

“I am Miss Bump,” I said, crossing toward this man and extending my hand without hesitation. “And am I to believe you are the equally famous Mr. Barnum?”

“That I am, that I am, indeed.” He took my hand solemnly, shook it, then suddenly bent down to peer directly into my face. His eyes were level with mine, so close that I could see myself reflected in them, and I had the startling, dizzy impression of a carnival, of colors and sounds and mirrors of every shape and size; of music, joyous, merry music tooted from horns and plucked by fiddles. How one man’s gaze could engage so many senses, I had no idea; I only knew his did. It nearly knocked the breath out of me; my heart did a riotous somersault as the back of my neck tickled with excitement, and I fought an undignified urge to giggle.

However, I managed to keep my composure. I looked back at him, meeting him halfway; for a long moment our gazes held. I do not know what he saw in mine, but it appeared to satisfy him; with a businesslike nod, he straightened up, shook hands with my mother, then motioned for us to take a seat. One chair had a footstool placed strategically in front of it; I knew it had been placed there for me.

Once we were all seated, Mr. Barnum rang a silver bell; another maid appeared, and he asked for lemonade and cookies to be served. I felt Mama approved of this, as she smiled in genuine pleasure and relaxed a fraction, just enough so that I did not fear she might break into brittle little pieces if she moved too quickly.

“Did you have a pleasant journey?” Mr. Barnum asked my father.

“Well, I guess. Nothing bad happened, anyway. But I’m not
looking forward to the return home.” Papa picked up the dropped cigar and held it, once again, at arm’s length. I knew he did not approve of cigars, only pipes.

“This was my parents’ first train journey,” I explained to Mr. Barnum, who nodded in sympathy.

“Oh, I remember my first trip! Like to have scared the daylights out of me, all the noise and steam and speed. Nothing beats the old horse and buggy, does it, Mr. Bump?”

“No, sirree, not by a long shot!” My father smiled for the first time since we left Middleborough; relaxing, he dropped the cigar in a cut-glass ashtray and left it there.

“But now, why—can’t get along without it! I couldn’t keep up with my business if I didn’t take the train into New York every day!”

“Every day? You take the train every day?” Papa looked at him in horror.

“Can’t deny it! Every weekday morning, just about, ol’ William—that’s the coachman—takes me to the station, and I take the train into New York, then I walk to my museum. I take the train home at night, and William drives me back here. Very efficient—and I don’t have to live in the city anymore. I can’t imagine living anyplace but Bridgeport now—my wife’s health, you know, requires rest and sea air.”

“I’m so sorry,” Mama murmured automatically, but Mr. Barnum merely waved his hand.

“ ’Tis nothing new to me; Charity has long been prone to sickness. I tire her out, that’s the thing; it takes a lot out of a woman to keep up with me!” And Mr. Barnum laughed, as if it were truly nothing, but behind his eyes that little light wavered a bit.

The maid brought in a tray with tall frosty glasses of lemonade and plates of delicate sugar cookies; she served them all around, then left the tray and silently retired.

“Now, let’s get to the point of this. I understand you don’t think very highly of me.” Mr. Barnum spoke to my father, although I felt as if he was really addressing my mother. He turned to Papa, but his eyes looked at her.

“Oh, my, well, I never intended to be rude!” Mama was very flustered—but she was the one who answered, as Papa chose that moment to conveniently stuff a cookie into his mouth.

“Not rude, just prudent,” Mr. Barnum replied cheerfully, with an understanding nod. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest—an attitude I would soon grow to know very well. It was an attitude of waiting—waiting for someone to give him the answer that he sought. Rarely was he left waiting for long.

“Yes, prudent, of course!” Mama nodded vigorously. “You see, Vinnie—Lavinia—is our eldest daughter left at home, and naturally we worry about her. We are quite an old family, you know—the Warrens from Massachusetts; five of my ancestors came over on the
Mayflower.
” Mama smiled in that prim way she had whenever she spoke of her ancestry.

“You don’t say?” Mr. Barnum’s eyebrows raised and his eyes narrowed intently. He appeared to be filing this information away, for what purpose my mother of course could not suspect—but I did, and I smiled to myself, nibbling daintily at a cookie.

“So naturally we have concerns about her future,” Mama continued. “We want only what is proper and dignified for Lavinia and for our family.”

“Naturally.” Mr. Barnum sat for a second, apparently deep in thought. The room was silent, save for the sound of my father nervously clearing his throat. “Yet you had no qualms about letting her travel about the Mississippi on a rowboat?”

Mama gasped, and Papa, who had been uneasily silent until now, said, “See here!”

Mr. Barnum merely smiled, turning to me for the first time
in this conversation. And then he sat back, his arms still folded across his chest, and waited.

“It was not a rowboat,” I replied, struggling not to smile, for I knew he was but toying with us. “It was a floating palace of curiosities, and a very popular one at that.”

“Run by a cousin of yours, I understand?”

“Yes, Colonel Wood, a cousin of mine. That was the only reason we let Lavinia go with him,” Mama interjected, her forehead wrinkling in concern and puzzlement.

“Cousin.” Mr. Barnum snorted dismissively. “Be that as it may, I assure you that what I am offering Miss Bump is much more than a lazy ride up the Mississippi in some rickety boat. But, of course, I’m no cousin. Just a humble farmer’s son from Connecticut—no descendent of the
Mayflower.
”

“Well, now, I’m a farmer myself.” Papa stirred uncomfortably. “I can’t fault a man for being that!”

“No, of course not, that’s not at all what I meant.” Mama, more flustered than I’d ever seen her, frowned down at her hands.

“My poor father died when I was but a lad, and I had to care for my mother and sisters, so I was not able to have the kind of education I’m sure the Warrens of Massachusetts were able to provide for their sons,” Mr. Barnum continued, his face so serious but his eyes so close to merry. I was the only one who saw them, however; my parents were too ashamed to meet his gaze.

“Well, it’s not as if we were able to send our boys to Harvard, either,” Papa said agreeably. “They’re farmers, too, the ones who aren’t off fighting.”

“Fighting for our grand Union?” Mr. Barnum’s voice now filled with musical emotion—fifes and drums and “Yankee Doodle.” Sitting up straight, he placed his hand over his heart—and I had to look away, biting the inside of my cheek so as not to burst into laughter. He rose and laid his other hand gently upon Mama’s
arm. “Madam, I cannot begin to convey my gratitude to you, a mother of such brave boys. Your noble sacrifice will never be forgotten.”

Mama, her face covered in mortification, simply nodded, still unable to look Mr. Barnum in the eye. He returned to his seat with a loud, dramatic sniff—then turned to give me a brazen wink, which made me gasp out loud.

Mama and Papa looked at me, but I simply shook my head and dabbed my eye, as if contemplating my brothers’ courage.

“I do understand your concerns,” Mr. Barnum said, his voice still choked with emotion. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for you and your noble family. I’m a father myself, you know—I have three lovely daughters living, and one angel taken from us far too soon.”

“Oh, no!” Mama exclaimed.

“So you see, I have no desire to do anything but keep Miss Bump virtuous and safe from harm, while naturally allowing her the opportunity to see a bit of the world in the manner deserving of such a fine lady, from such a fine family. I know I’m merely a farmer’s son, a patriot, a father of daughters—but I vow, with all my heart, to protect your daughter. I’d die myself before I would bring shame upon your good name.”

During this speech, Mr. Barnum had leaned forward toward my parents in a beseeching attitude, his hands outstretched, his face open and earnest. Mama and Papa listened intently, transfixed.

I leaned forward as well; I did so want my parents’ blessing. I could not imagine continuing to live in Middleborough, where I would never fit in, not only because of my size but now because of my reputation. I could imagine no future for me there that did not consist of staying at home with Mama and Papa and Minnie, growing smaller and older with each tick of the kitchen mantel
clock, which Mama faithfully wound every day—until I disappeared completely.

I had known Mr. Barnum only a quarter of an hour, but already I felt my wits quicken with every word he spoke, every move he made, as if he were the sharpening stone and I the edge of the knife. It was as if I had at last found someone with a personality, with dreams, as big as my own.

“What I can’t understand is how you heard of Lavinia in the first place.” Mama shook her head. “She’s been back home for almost two years now. I thought that she’d gotten this whole thing out of her system.”

“Why, I—” Mr. Barnum happened to turn my way; he caught me shaking my head and he clamped his mouth shut—after first giving me a small, admiring nod. “That is, your daughter’s reputation reached my ears from other performers who spoke highly of her; her beauty and grace are known far beyond the Mississippi.”

“They are?” Papa looked at me, then scratched his head, as if trying to see these attributes and failing. I smiled fondly; I knew I was just his daughter, just his Vinnie, and I loved him for that. Even though he had never known precisely what to do with me, he had always loved me for no special reason at all, which satisfied my heart more than I could ever tell him.

“Yes, they are. This is quite a daughter you have here.” And they all three beamed upon me as if I were an unopened Christmas present.

“We just don’t want any deception perpetuated in her name,” Mama announced, in an almost apologetic tone. “I’m sure you understand.”