Circus of Wonders

by Elizabeth Macneal

  In the mirror, his face is ghostly. He pastes it with white lead, rouges his lips with dyed whale fat. It clags between his fingers, a fishy scent. He takes a quick sip of gin and it steadies him.

  It is scarcely light. Outside, the trees are bickering but no rain drums the roof. He sits on the steps of his wagon. Nothing else stirs, not even the canary. In an hour, the barrow boys will begin rounding up the messes spilled by the pleasure gardens the evening before – pools of vomit, lost petticoats, beef and chicken bones. They will scrub the paths with buckets of water.

  He stretches, sighs. The dew shines in perfect little globes. He picks a blade of grass, drowsed forwards with the weight of its droplet. He touches his finger to it, watches it break.

  This is his day, the moment when his name will rise higher than ever before.

  All morning, he buries himself in preparations, bellows at the grooms to muck out the cages, to buff shoes and buckles and toppers until they shine like mirrors. He wheedles and threatens, his whip flicking at his side, longing to give a beating. But everything is done as he commands; the tack is as clean as if freshly bought, the petals from hydrangeas scattered on the paths to greet the little Queen’s feet.

  The day scarcely seems to turn; it feels as if it is nine o’clock for ever. He watches the thickening clouds and prays the rains will wait. He bites his fingernails until it is painful to hold the whip, instructs his press agents with last-minute requests for tomorrow’s broadsheets.

  ‘You must say my name until they are sick of writing it. Jasper Jupiter.’ He taps his temple in time to it. ‘Jasper Jupiter, Jasper Jupiter. Crimean hero, circus owner, it must be me at the heart of it,’ and they nod, pens scribbling. ‘All of my acts are my own invention.’

  In the mid-afternoon, he gathers his troupe in a semicircle, assumes his place in the middle of them.

  ‘We have the finest show in the country,’ Jasper says. ‘I know it. You know it. And soon the Queen will know it too. Every night, we soar. Every night, the audiences grow.’

  He makes them laugh, and Jasper sees how his brother watches him, admiration in his eye. Even the animals, the birds, the rustling trees, seem to fall into silence.

  ‘I’ve consulted meteorologists at Greenwich. Rain is blustering in, but we might be fortunate. We must pray that it holds off,’ Jasper says, and they all look up, as if his hands have lifted their chins. There is an uneasiness in the atmosphere, a dull scent of metal. The clouds are low, heavy-bellied, the colour of tin, and they all know that storms are coming.

  At five o’clock, Jasper prepares the small procession which will accompany the Queen on her journey to their show. She will sit in her own coach, but he will ride his finest pony beside her, Peggy following in a tiny papier-mâché carriage shaped like a walnut. The dwarf wears a pair of wired wings draped with gauze, a hired newborn clutched to her chest. It shrieks pitifully, lungs working as furiously as a pair of miniature bellows. Three labourers will follow at the rear, armed with pistols and knives.

  ‘And make sure the globes are lighted the instant you see her coach,’ he says, as he leaps on to his horse. Its mane has been dyed with powdered paint, its flank and legs coloured in red and blue. Huffen Black hands him his standard and it flutters in the breeze.

  ‘Jasper Jupiter’s Circus of Wonders!’

  As Peggy’s carriage pulls out of the gardens, and he trots beside her, he stands, balancing on the saddle just as Dash taught him. Fishwives pause, hands caught mid-gut, their baskets squirming with silver herrings. A girl shouldering a crab pot pauses, the shelled beasts click-clacking over each other. Cress sellers, sutlers, footmen, ladies with great ostrich feathers – all pause and stare as they trot past. The trees rustle their applause, the Thames clapping against the wharves. He shifts to one leg, arms stretched out.

  ‘Jasper Jupiter’s Circus of Wonders!’ he cries out. ‘By royal decree!’

  He imagines his name bellowed in every side street, hawked in every alley, murmured in every drawing room and office in this glorious, belching city. Urchins scramble back to pull in more crowds. ‘Look, look, come see!’ For a moment, the grey clouds lift, and the light is so bright he has to shield his eyes.

  ‘Jasper Jupiter!’

  At the Palace, Peggy releases the cage of painted pigeons, each marked with an elaborate ‘J. J.’ They hop out, stubby-clawed. Soon, they will be mince for a cart, for a fox, but now they are his little ensigns, pecking at the gravel, careering as if drunk.

  And then, the carriage appears – he squints to catch a glimpse of her, but her curtains are drawn. It does not matter. It is enough to know she is in there, that he has caught her attention at last, that he has been the first showman to draw her out in years. The little Queen, with the stature of a child. The freak-fancier. As the miniature ponies turn and follow behind her, it seems that this day has been built with the exactitude of machinery and nothing can go wrong.

  Before each show, there is always a rustling of wrappers, a low murmuring, a tension as sharp as a held breath. The performers shuffle from foot to foot, shake the last shred of stress from their toes, exchange half-smiles. The animals paw at the sawdust, heads swinging.

  Jasper stands solid, legs planted a shoulder’s width apart. It is almost dark, the lanterns about the stage winking like little eyes. Jasper peers between the curtains. There she is, dressed in her black widow’s weeds. She holds a satin bag, embroidered with a gold poodle. She is waiting for him.

  He nods at the trumpeters, and they inhale, instruments pressed to their lips. His elephant, Minnie, lies down and he vaults on to her back, adjusts his red cape, his glittering topper. He clicks his fingers, gently.

  And with that, the trumpets are sounding, and the curtains are drawn back, and Minnie is stumbling into the ring. ‘Welcome,’ he bellows, his voice as sure as it ever was. ‘Welcome! Your Majesty, it is my honour to present the greatest show on earth, Jasper Jupiter’s Circus of Wonders! Today you will see acts that will make you question your own mind, that will have you fumbling for your spectacles. You will hear sounds that you’ve never even dreamed of –’

  This, he thinks, as he whisks up his arms, as he whirls a long whip about his head, is the greatest moment of his life. He has built this show from nothing but a few stunned Russian horses. He has taken risks, tracked down every act and every animal, and trained them with the meticulousness of an artist. He stands at the centre of it. He, Jasper Jupiter, exultant, extraordinary.

  When the balloon rises, and Nell swings beneath it, he knows he has been a success. Squibs, crackers and Catherine wheels squeal and hiss in his ears.

  ‘We are such stuff

  As dreams are made on; and our little life

  Is rounded with a sleep.’

  A thundering from the pleasure gardens. A crowd has built behind the grandstand, and they are all waiting. They flap their wallpaper flags, chorus their applause. Jasper can almost smell the fresh ink on tomorrow’s broadsheets. They will be flooded with new patrons, will fill the stand four, five times in an evening. He need only hold out his top hat to catch the stream of gold.

  He bobs his hands as if conducting the pens of a hundred Fleet Street hacks.

  ‘Jasper Jupiter entertained the Queen in a triumph of a show –’

  When Nell lands on the ground and the basket of the balloon is secured once more, he orders a labourer to bring champagne. They drink from old jam pots, clinking glasses. He feels a sense of belonging so acute it is an ache. Tonight, they moved as one body, outflanked all their rivals.

  It is no surprise when a courtier appears. He delivers the invitation to the Palace with a quick bow. Nell is to accompany him.

  ‘She’s magnificent, isn’t she?’ Jasper says. ‘I built her myself.’

  ‘Her Majesty is most keen to make her acquaintance.’

  ‘As I am hers,’ Jasper says. ‘I’ll summon us a coach. Shall we come now, or at an appointed hour?’

  A pause. The courtier fidgets. �
��Ah, you misunderstand me,’ he says. ‘Her Majesty enjoyed your show greatly. But she would like to receive Nellie Moon.’ He looks at Jasper as if he might be simple. ‘Only Nellie Moon, at the Palace.’

  Toby

  The storm arrives with a snap. The great bowl of the sky splits with lightning. Thunder rolls, thick and low. It is biblical, God’s fury unleashed. Rain falls as if poured from a pail, spits out candles, turns sawdust to pulp. The animals shiver, the lion drawn to its haunches. Toby seizes their leashes, drags them back into their cages. All about him, puddles are boiling, water dripping from his nose, his chin.

  He works steadily, with none of the haste of the dispersing crowds, gentlemen dashing for cabs and coaches, ladies so wet they look as though they have been sucked into their frocks. He pulls the tarpaulins over the benches, tries to rescue some of the papier-mâché ornaments. They turn to mush in his hands. The ring is little more than a well. There is no use trying to save the curtain; it is so water-logged that not even Violante could lift it. Thunder simmers. Jasper’s shouts echo in his ears. Fetch that, bring that, put that away, I said, away! His brother stands in the middle of the ring, benches arced around him. His hair is slicked to his face, his finger jabbing the air. Nobody nears him. In the wagons, Toby sees lamps striking up, Stella hurrying Pearl from Nell’s wagon into her own.

  He skirts the grandstand to check the animals are more settled, that somebody has fed them. He leaps over a widening stream. Foul-smelling water is bubbling up through the drains. He shudders, lifts the boards on to the menagerie wagons, throws a few dry blankets over the leopards.

  Grimaldi is in the stable, pawing at the ground. Toby hushes him as he used to do when the guns roared in Varna, rests his cheek against the horse’s soft nose. ‘Shhh,’ Toby says, and the animal begins to settle. Toby presses Grimaldi’s warmth to him, so cold in his wet clothes. On winter nights, he often sleeps beside his horse, head resting against his belly. He considers it tonight, but he needs to check his wagon hasn’t leaked, that his photographs are safe. Rain hammers the roof.

  ‘Settle now,’ Toby says, and his horse lifts his head and nuzzles him. ‘There’s my boy.’

  Out again, crossing the ground, filthy water swirling around his ankles – a sudden split of lightning. The painted script of his caravan illuminated. Secure the shadow ’ere the substance fades. The wood of his door is swollen and he has to put his weight behind it. Inside, it is dry, and he exhales his relief, lights a lamp. The little room swings into view – his mattress on the floor, his rows of chemicals, a book which he and Nell read together the evening before. He can smell her on his bedclothes – lemons and oil paint and something earthier – and it irritates him briefly, that she has taken up so much of his life, that he can think of little but her.

  He is about to peel off his wet clothes when his door is flung open. His brother stands there, dripping on the floorboards, wringing rain from his hair and cloak. Fury lifts from him, as white and hot as steam.

  ‘That little bitch,’ Jasper hisses.

  Toby has a sudden fear Jasper will catch Nell’s scent too; that he will work it out, that this will tip him into something uglier. But his brother’s look is wild, eyes unable to settle, a reek of gin lingering on him.

  ‘How could she? How could she?’ Jasper demands. He takes an empty bottle, weighs it in his hand as if about to break it.

  ‘Perhaps –’ Toby says, but he falls silent. He has never seen his brother like this, never felt the weight and gust of his anger.

  ‘Didn’t she know it was my show? Didn’t she see me, my name, everywhere?’ He twists the glass in his hand. ‘Nellie Moon! I created her! I made that little monster. I built her from nothing – from a filthy little hovel! How couldn’t the Queen see that? How couldn’t she see that Nell is mine, that she’s little more than a puppet on a string, that I am her damned creator –’

  Toby opens his mouth, closes it. His objections are swallowed. He touches his lips in the hope of finding words there, an easy defence of Nell. Another man would have pinned Jasper to the wall, would have stopped the torrent of Jasper’s fury. But Toby merely blinks, his big arms heavy. He does not have the courage to defend her.

  On and on Jasper paces, his hands flexing with rage, insults cast and spat, and Toby tries not to listen, tries to let them wash over him.

  Coward, he thinks. Coward.

  He looks up only when his brother falls silent, when his footsteps stop. Jasper is looking at him strangely, mouth half-open.

  At first Toby does not understand.

  ‘What have you done?’ Jasper whispers. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

  ‘What?’ He touches his head, thinks perhaps he has cut himself.

  It is only then that he sees his shirt is torn at the neck, that it has turned transparent in the rain. Faint shapes peep through. The pale lace of vines, a crimson peony breaking across his chest like a second heart. He tries to reach for his bedclothes, to cover himself, but Jasper smacks his hand away.

  ‘What have you done to yourself?’ Jasper repeats, louder this time. He seizes Toby’s shirt and tears it to his midriff, buttons skittering across the floor.

  Roses and lilies spill over his torso as if dropped from the back of a Covent Garden barrow.

  ‘What – what are you?’

  ‘I – I thought you’d like it –’

  ‘Like it?’ Jasper spits. ‘You’ve turned yourself into one of them. A freak. You’d choose their lives?’ He is staring at him as if he does not know him, as he might look at an animal. ‘You’d choose to be on a podium, prodded and ridiculed? You’d choose it?’

  Jasper raises his hand and even though his brother does not touch him, Toby stumbles. He falls to the floor, pulls in his legs as if expecting Jasper to kick him. He turns his hands into a small fist. He could fight back if he wanted to, ground Jasper with a single blow. He could –

  Jasper’s voice is choked, and he turns away. ‘After all I did for you, everything I saved you from, after Dash –’

  ‘Wait,’ Toby begs. ‘Please –’

  But Jasper is gone, vanished into the dark.

  Toby is alone then, alone as the rain thunders on the roof. He pulls off his trousers, his legs thick with muck and stink. He stares at his trunk-like thighs with their flowers and vines, and something bristles within him. He remembers that pride he felt, pushing through the crowds, the scent of fresh baking in the air, gingerbread stalls and chestnut barrows, how everyone saw him and marvelled.

  He pictures a cottage and a thick forest; a wife and their child. He might curate an exhibition, fill a room with neat frames bearing small truths, histories he alone has recorded. A dead man, a broken rifle, an army in disarray. Tents like crumpled paper. He imagines himself at the centre of it, clicking his fingers like a showman, revealing the trick that the world has conspired to conceal, a making-good of the lies he told. Then he remembers, too, what he has done, what he has kept hidden. Dash. He pulls his cover over himself, his cheek still wet with rain.

  Nell

  Nell is led down halls as wide as houses, ceilings supported by pinkish pilasters. The footman moves at a fast clip, and she has to half-run to keep up with him. Up a marble staircase, banister rolling like seasickness, down more corridors, wider this time, hung with striped green satin. As they walk, the attendant clips out commands – ‘Never address the Queen directly, do not turn your back’ – and Nell stumbles on a loose rug. Everything has been rinsed in gold, polished to a sheen, and Nell sees hundreds of miniature versions of herself reflected in doorknobs, in the glossy cornicing, on the mirrored walls. Her birthmarked thighs, the doublet and pantaloons with their moon and stars. She tugs at the seams, tries to pull it lower down her legs. If only she were wearing a dress or trousers; if only Toby or Stella were with her. She had no time to change after the show, had barely lifted those heavy mechanical wings from her shoulders, when Stella told her to climb into the carriage and to be quick about it, to leave be
fore Jasper saw her. Something was shuffled out of order, though she did not understand what or why; she asked Stella to find Pearl, to give her supper.

  Into a room as large as the grandstand itself, sculptures leering like an army of decapitated enemies. She takes a breath. Fireplaces thunder. She notes hipped vases on podiums, cravatted courtiers who scurry like frightened mice. She turns to face the wall, uncertain where she is supposed to look. There is a frieze, a bas-relief of pygmies and tiny people with stick-thin legs – ‘Brobdingnagians’, she reads, though this means nothing to her. Giants, dwarves, meadows as smooth as ironed sheets.

  And then there is an arm on hers, and she finds herself propelled forwards. There, at the end of the gallery, is the Queen. As the formalities are run through – a bow, an introduction – she feels as if she is being observed through a sheet of glass. A few months ago, her back was bent to the clod, trowel digging at soil. She touches her wrist as if to feel the comfort of her own solidity, to remind herself that she will not shatter.

  ‘And you are the Queen of the Moon and Stars,’ the Queen says.

  Nell nods. She wonders if she is expected to say something entertaining, to dance a little jig, or tell a joke, or pull a flower from the Queen’s ears. The nonsense ramblings of Huffen Black fill her mind – the barber shaved bald magpies at twopence a dozen, he did, all rubbed down with cabbage-puddings, but still they caught the collywobblums in their pandenoodles –

  ‘Your face,’ the Queen says. ‘May I touch it?’

  Nell does not reply. She cannot find her tongue. But the woman is already stretching out a hand, soft palm against her cheek.

  ‘I can see there’s no trick.’ She sits back, satisfied, a small smile on her face. ‘I’m wise to humbugs.’ She turns to the footman. ‘Fetch me my little beast. I believe she and Nellie Moon share the same tailor.’