The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb (30 page)

“Me, too!” I embraced my brother once more, my arms about his dirty neck. Then he joined the General and myself in our carriage as we continued to drive through the camp, the General, in particular, being greeted so warmly by those who had seen him perform. And it seemed to me practically every soldier in the Union army had done so; I was very proud of him at that moment.

How proud I was, as well, to be escorted through that army camp by my brother and my husband; how touched I was to see the joy my husband and I brought our boys in blue, fighting so valiantly to preserve our Union! It was a moment I would never forget, and I was eternally grateful to Charles for making it possible. For I knew I would never have experienced it on my own, as Lavinia Warren Bump.

And then we were back in New York, back in Society, the whirlwind of it all; every morning the silver tray next to our door was piled high with thick white envelopes of invitation. One morning, about two weeks after our return, I spied an envelope
that was more ornate than the rest; opening it, I quickly read it, then laughed out loud.

“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
. T
HE 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 in my lap. I was aware of the intense interest in our family plans. It insulted my sensibility, but I also had to allow it, since we had married in such a public way. Logically, it would follow that we would be expected to present an infant Thumb to the public sooner rather than later.

“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 me explain. I simply cannot have children, that’s all, and I wish you would leave it at that.”

“What? Oh, no—no, that’s not what I was talking about, no.” Mr. Barnum looked as mortified as I was; he even deliberately dropped his tobacco pouch to give himself a moment to collect his bearings. “Vinnie, I am sorry about your, er, situation. Forgive me for not having considered something of that nature before I blundered on. However—well, first things first. No, I’m talking about the fact that you were still under contract to someone else when you signed with me.”

“Oh.” I sank back into my chair and allowed my feet to dangle, something I generally tried very hard not to do. “Colonel Wood. He contacted you.” It was not a question; I knew it was true. I had always known it would be true, someday.

“Yes, he did. Tell me, Vinnie, why didn’t you mention it from the first? It would have been no problem at all—I would have paid the scoundrel off with a pittance, and no more would be heard. But now you’re famous, you’re Society—you’re worth so much more. And this Wood, whatever he may be, is no fool.”

“No, he’s not, although he is an evil, evil man!” I spat the words bitterly, for they were bile in my mouth. All the humiliation, all the times he had kicked at me, threatened to pick me up, throw me across a room—and then the ultimate mortification of trying to
sell
me as if I were a slave—it all came back, washing over me so that I felt my very skin turn grimy and dirty with riverboat muck once more.

“Is he—he is the one who you told me about? Who tried to sell you?” Mr. Barnum’s voice was very gentle; I longed to look into his face, knowing that I would see absolution there. But I could not bring myself to. I simply nodded.

“I see. Rest assured, next time I see him I will thrash him with my own cane. However, before I thrash him, I have to pay him off, and he is demanding quite a sum not to go to the papers and complain that the dastardly Barnum has cheated him out of a livelihood—not to mention, he made some ridiculous threat to tell stories about you that would make Mrs. Astor’s hair stand up on end. Now I understand what he was alluding to—although no one would ever fault you, of course. Still, talk of it would be damaging. So you see, Vinnie—come, look at me, friend.” Mr. Barnum hooked his finger beneath my chin and lifted my face so that I could not look away. His eyes were kindness and understanding, both; I searched and searched, but could not find one hint of accusation or disappointment in them. And so I was able to nod and bravely smile back, ready to follow him into battle.

“What do I have to do?”

“Well, this is going to cost us both, Vinnie, as both our reputations
are at stake. Look, I’m willing to pay the man what he asks. But it’s a very pretty sum, I don’t mind telling you. It’s going to take me a while to make it back. This is where you can help.”

“How? I’ll do anything—absolutely anything, I promise. I give you my word.”

“I’m glad to hear that, very glad to hear that. For I want you to convince Minnie to sign with me.”

“No.” I shook my head violently. I repeated it just in case he didn’t understand, as he wasn’t used to being contradicted. “No.”

“Vinnie, consider the facts. I believe Minnie had a very good time at your wedding, didn’t she?”

I didn’t reply. Yes, my shy little sister did have a good time at our wedding, much to my surprise. While she had clutched at my hand with every step, she had never been completely overwhelmed; indeed, she accepted it all with an equanimity that surprised me. And at night, she had even stayed up late to talk everything over; that was when her excitement truly could not be contained. During the day she was a model of bashful maidenhood; at night, she bubbled over as she tried to process all the lovely things she was experiencing. And as happy as she was to board the train back home, her letters since had betrayed a thirst for news they never had before. No more were they tear-stained pleas for me to come home; now she asked, in a clear hand, how Charles was, how her good friend Mr. Barnum was, did I have any new gowns made up yet, did I think she might be able to come visit again soon?

But I had promised myself—and more important, I had promised Mama, from whom I still felt somewhat estranged—that I would keep my sister safe. And that did not mean dragging her up onstage with me; indeed, the thought of Minnie onstage was so foreign that I could not comprehend it. What on earth would she do? Hold my hand and clutch her doll?

“No!” My tongue was almost tired of saying the word; would he not listen to me? “I told you before, this is not the life for her. If you want Nutt to join Charles and me, that’s fine, as long as he behaves like a gentleman. But no, Minnie must not. She’s much too young.”

“She’s no younger than Nutt; she’s not much younger than you were when you first left home.”

“That’s entirely different. Minnie is not me. She’s not as strong; she’s not as—”

“What?” He cocked a bushy eyebrow. “She’s not as bright as you? As capable of understanding the world? I don’t know if that’s true or not, but what you must acknowledge is that she’ll have you with her the entire time. You’re in a very different position now, and I’m no Colonel Wood. You’ll never be in the kind of danger you were then, and you’re a married woman, anyhow. You won’t be attracting the kind of people who prey on maidens.”