Maybe it was because I was thinking of her that her name popped out of my mouth. “Minnie,” I said, stifling a yawn. Then I realized what I had said and sat up straight.
“Minnie?” Mr. Barnum looked confused. “Who’s Minnie?”
“Why, she’s Vinnie’s sister!” Charles piped up, even though I shook my head, warningly, at him. But he did not pay any attention. “And say, Phineas, she’s just like us! Smaller than Vinnie, even. I met her when I asked Vinnie’s parents for her hand. I’m awfully glad to have a sister I don’t have to look up to.”
“You have a sister?” Mr. Barnum looked at me; there was surprise and hurt, both, in his eyes. “You never mentioned that to me before.”
“I never—I just didn’t think it necessary, as Minnie’s so shy. She’s content to stay at home with Papa and Mama.”
“What other secrets do you keep from me, Vinnie? I have to say, I’m quite hurt!”
I could not decide if he was joking or not; he had a teasing, crooked grin upon his face, but his eyes glittered, hard.
“None. It’s not exactly as if Minnie is a secret, of course, it’s just—”
“That you never felt like telling me, your friend, about her?”
“No, it’s not that—you don’t understand.” I shook my head and attempted to undo the damage. “Actually, to get back to the subject, I think Pauline would make a wonderful bridesmaid, and I’d be honored if she would accept.”
“And of course you’ll be my best man, Phineas.” Charles rubbed his eyes sleepily.
“I am much honored,” Mr. Barnum replied seriously, patting Charles on the shoulder. “But I can just imagine what the newspapers would say to that—accusing me of hogging the spotlight or some such nonsense. No, I think it would be better if you found someone else. What about Nutt?”
“Old Nutt? Well, he’s a jolly old fellow, but he’s mad at me, you know. I guess he’s still mad about Vinnie.”
“I think that he might appreciate it if you ask him, Charles. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d put aside his wounded pride out of happiness for the two of you.”
“Well, if you think it’s best, Phineas—”
“I do, old fellow. Now, Vinnie, obviously you want your sister to stand up with you—why pretend otherwise?” Mr. Barnum turned to me, again with that hard glitter in his eyes; I could hear the gears in his brain turning now, as well, as he chewed his lip, drummed a pencil against his desk. “I have an idea. Listen to me. We haven’t discussed what you’ll do after your honeymoon tour—by the way, the Lincolns have definitely invited you two to a reception at the Executive Mansion, and that’s a bit of publicity beyond anything I could dream up, bless their Republican souls—but now I’m coming up with a plan. Imagine this: a quartet of the most wonderful, intelligent, and perfectly formed ladies and gentlemen the world ever produced, presented for the first time ever before the public. You two, Nutt, and now—Miss Minnie Warren. What do you think of that?”
“No.” I shook my head so vigorously that some of my hair escaped its pins, falling down and tickling my nose. “No. Not Minnie. She is not cut out for this life, and I’ve promised that I will keep her safe. And safe, for her, is back home, on the farm, where she belongs.”
“Vinnie, Vinnie, what’s the danger in the life that you are living now? Surely you don’t feel as if you’re physically at risk in my beautiful Museum?”
“Of course not.” I waved my hand impatiently; Mr. Barnum was being deliberately obtuse, and both he and I knew it. Charles, however, did not.
“Why, Phineas is right, you know, Vinnie. Look at how long I’ve been with him—the worst thing that ever happened to me was when Queen Victoria’s dog almost bit me, remember, Phineas? We were at the palace, you know, and I had my little toy sword that I used onstage, and when that dog came yapping toward me, I waved my sword at it—how everyone laughed! Remember, Phineas?” Charles’s eyes gleamed bright, as they always did when he was relating stories of his past successes. I tried to smile patiently; he had told me this story many times before.
“Charles.” I placed a gentle hand upon his arm, something I knew soothed and pleased him. “You hardly know my sister. Minnie is the sweetest soul in the world, but simple. Trusting. The type of timid soul who can be wounded by so many things, not just physical ones but a glance, a word, an idea, even.”
“No, you’re the sweetest soul in the world,” my erstwhile lover argued, right on cue. I turned back to Mr. Barnum with a sigh.
“I still say Pauline will be perfect. She was such a help to me when I first came to New York, and she is exquisite—think of how lovely she’ll look, how the Press will remark upon the beauty of Mr. Barnum’s daughter, such a compliment to you!”
“You can’t fool a fooler, Vinnie.” Mr. Barnum laughed. “It won’t work. I don’t want Pauline, and that’s that. I am her father, after all; I can forbid it.”
“Is this my wedding or yours?” I retorted.
“That’s a fair enough question, isn’t it? Which, do you think?” He sounded amused.
“Don’t you mean our wedding, Vinnie? Not just yours? It is our wedding, isn’t it?” Charles looked at me so anxiously that Mr. Barnum and I both colored with shame.
“Yes, absolutely, dear, it’s our wedding. Not Mr. Barnum’s.”
“Absolutely, old chap—I’m throwing you and your lovely bride the biggest shindig this city has ever seen, and actually I wanted to suggest something. We’ve been bringing in a lot of money, the three of us together, in all of this. We could easily keep it up for at least a month. Why not rethink the date, and I’ll throw in fifteen thousand dollars as a nest egg?”
I had to laugh; the man was impossible! Like a child, really. A child obsessed with one toy and one toy alone, who always steered the conversation back around to that one thing, who took it to bed with him at night. Then I had to laugh again; I had an image of Mr. Barnum sleeping with the day’s receipts tucked under his pillow. I would not be surprised!
But Charles did not laugh. He puffed out his chest, as he did whenever he felt the need to assert his manliness, and declared, “No! Not for fifty thousand dollars would I wait one more minute to marry Vinnie!”
“Not for one hundred thousand dollars!” I chimed in, just to see the look on Mr. Barnum’s face. And I was not disappointed; his mouth dropped open so that his ever-present cigar fell to his lap, burning a hole in his trousers. Cursing mildly, he jumped up and brushed the ash off, hopping about in a very undignified manner.
“Well, if that isn’t all—look at the monsters I’ve created, the heartless creatures! Putting the old man in the poorhouse, all in the name of love!”
“Oh, Phineas, no—I’m not heartless! I would never put you in the poorhouse!” Just as suddenly, Charles’s manliness faded away; he was an anxious, repentant child once more.
“Charles, he’s exaggerating, as usual.” I patted his plump, warm hand. “Just wait—he’ll extract something else equally dear, in exchange for the money.”
“Commodore Nutt will be bitterly disappointed if he’s not your best man.” Mr. Barnum turned to Charles, beseechingly. And my heart began to sink.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that to him,” my tenderhearted fiancé said. “Very well. I’ll ask the old chap to stand up for me.”
“I think that’s best, to keep peace, and help the poor soul get over his disappointment.” Mr. Barnum turned to me with a coaxing smile, that barely suppressed glimmer in his eyes. “Come, Vinnie, think of it. The wedding party now consists of you three absolutely perfect, charming people—who do you think best completes such a tableau?”
“Oh, Vinnie, do ask your sister, do!” Charles turned to me as well, grasping my hand. “For your sister naturally will be dear to me as any of my own, and this would be the perfect way for us all to begin. And how convenient, as well—think of the photographs of the bridal party! Why, none of us would have to be seated or standing on a step; we’d all be the same. I’ve never before had m
y photograph taken with people all of my same size—imagine!”
Charles looked so eager, so happy; Mr. Barnum did, as well, although his eagerness was more likely caused by the dollar signs he saw at the mention of photographs.
I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t just the wedding; it was what would happen after. That was what I feared.
“Just the wedding,” I decided. “That’s all. After that, Minnie goes back home.”
“Of course,” Mr. Barnum agreed with that admiring, approving look that blinded me so that I did not always see what else was behind it. “Just as you wish, Vinnie. You know I promised your parents I would never do a thing without your approval first.”
“I know,” I said reluctantly, ruefully. “And that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
“SISTER! SISTER! WE TOOK THE TRAIN AND IT WASN’T DREADFUL at all, although Papa looked awfully sick and kept his eyes closed the whole time even though I know he wasn’t sleeping. And then I was hungry but Mama said we’d eat at the next stop but there wasn’t any food there, only some dreadful boy selling black bananas. Mama says New York smells awful, doesn’t it? And then we saw buildings that almost blocked out the sun, and I ate a piece of ice that was flavored like cherry, in a paper cup, and then we rode in the most beautiful carriage and Mr. Barnum kissed my hand, just like I was a lady, just like I was you! Oh, Sister, I’m so glad to see you!” And Minnie finally paused for breath only to fling her arms about me, nearly knocking me over; she squeezed so tightly I thought she might crack one of my stays. I held her close for a moment, laying my cheek against her tangled, glossy black curls, which Mama had tried to put up in a ladylike sweep. But it hadn’t survived the trip; those curls had a mind of their own, and obviously they had decided the occasion was much too exciting to remain in so sedate a style.
“Minnie, Pumpkin, let me look at you!” I held her at arm’s length, hungrily taking her in as if it had been years since I’d seen her, not just weeks. Even when I came home from the river, I hadn’t been this happy to greet her; I think I’d been so numbed from the whole experience. But I wasn’t numb now! Something new, something wonderful, seemed to happen every day, and I wanted to share each and every experience with my family.
Minnie smiled, that dimple, that impish sparkle in her eyes, warming my heart. She was wearing the new dress I had sent to her, in the newest fashion—hoops so wide they swayed like the Liberty Bell, tiny waist, brown velvet panels alternating with gold satin. She wore a fur-tipped cloak and gloves and a fur hat (also gifts from me); she looked adorably ladylike.
Mama, too, looked very fine, in a similar dress and cloak, carrying a muff. I had never seen her dressed so handsomely, and it suited her to a remarkable degree. No longer in her comforting apron and homespun dress, she looked every inch a Warren of Massachusetts. Papa, so bashful and cowed, his shoulders pinched, his head bent, did not look so nice in his new suit and coat. A farmer’s clothes were all he would ever be comfortable in.
But I didn’t mind; I was just happy that they had arrived for my wedding. Mr. Barnum had arranged for a nice suite in the Metropolitan Hotel, on the same floor as mine, where I was newly ensconced in preparation for the festivities. I hooked my arm through Minnie’s and led them all down the plush carpeted hall, the ornate wallpaper illuminated by softly flickering gaslights.
“Now, Minnie, once you get settled we’ll need to rush right over to the dressmaker’s for a fitting. You, too, Mama; I picked out the loveliest gray watered silk for your gown. Now, Mama, you have to remember you’re in a hotel. Everything is done for you—you don’t have to lift a finger! You don’t have to make your own bed or even scrub out the chamber pot; someone will come every morning and do that for you. Mrs. Astor has asked, expressly, to meet you, so she would like very much to throw a reception for us on Monday before the wedding. I still have to do a few levees at the Museum, and I can’t wait for Minnie to see the sights! Mr. Barnum has arranged it so that you all can have a private hour or so seeing everything on Saturday. Oh, and Minnie, we’re going to have our photograph taken! Can you imagine?”
“My photograph? I don’t know—will it hurt very much?”
“No, darling, it doesn’t hurt a bit. Mr. Brady is the nicest man, and while it’s rather tedious and you have to stand absolutely still, it’s over very quickly. Can you do that?”
“Of course, if you’re there with me, Vinnie.”
“I will be, I promise. I won’t let you out of my sight. Here we are!” And I motioned for the porter, who had been following respectfully behind with the luggage, to open the door to their suite. I ran ahead so that I could see their faces as they took it all in; I was so happy, so thrilled, to show them this side of life. Oh, how they deserved the finer things!
“Oh, Vinnie,” Mama breathed as she fingered the fine velvet portieres, draped ceiling to floor, covering the windows. “How on earth do they clean them? You can’t wash velvet!”
“I don’t know, Mama.” I laughed, for it had never before occurred to me to wonder. “I’ll have to ask someone.”
“Vinnie, they don’t leave these lights on all the time, do they?” Papa, who had been studying one of the hissing gaslights jutting out from the wall, turned to me with a frown. “Think of the expense! How much do they get for a room like this, anyway? I’m not sure I like that Barnum fellow paying my way, after all. I’d like to give him something for all this—do you think he needs a milk cow for his place in Connecticut?”
“I doubt it, Papa. But I’ll ask, just for you.”
“Well, I’d appreciate it.” And my father went back to studying the gaslight, passing his hand over the top of the globe, checking to see how hot it was.
“Oh, Vinnie, look!” Minnie came running out of her bedroom clutching the beautiful gift that I had placed on her bed. It was a Jumeau doll, from France, an exquisite creature with a china face, real black curls, and the most sumptuous dress of blue silk, with lace petticoats and pantalets, and even satin slippers. I had chosen it because I thought it looked like Minnie, with those curls; as my sister cradled the doll in her arm reverently, smoothing her ringlets, I was satisfied that I had been right.
“Do you like it, Pumpkin?”
“Oh, more than anything I’ve ever seen! Even more than my new kitten back home. Thank you so much, Vinnie!”
And the light in my sister’s eyes as she sat carefully upon a small stool, cradling the new doll as if it were her own child, made me smile; it made my heart warm and expand so that I felt, in that moment, as full of love as any bride. For it was Charles who had bought the doll for Minnie; he had taken me shopping for it, insisting that he wanted to make her a present, and quite gravely asking my advice on the matter.
“Thank Charles, your new brother. He was the one who bought it. You can thank him tonight, at dinner. We’re dining with Mr. Barnum at Delmonico’s on East Fourteenth Street—ladies can only dine there in a private room—and oh, just wait until you all see it!” I was Father Christmas at that moment, showering my family with unknown delights. “It’s all crystal and marble and the finest silver and china, and waiters who whisk away your plate as soon as you’re finished and give you another, full of something else delicious! It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen before—so many dishes! And the wedding reception will be just as grand, I assure you!”
Mama and Papa exchanged an odd glance. Then Mama turned to me, her gentle eyes filling with tears, and she said, “Vinnie, dear, we need to discuss something with you.”
“What? What is it—are the boys all right? Benjamin? Nothing happened to them, did it?” Oh, how stupid of me—it was so easy to forget about the War, with all that was happening to me, especially here in New York. Despite it being the most prominent northern town, a great many citizens were very sympathetic to the Confederacy. So much of the commerce and manufacturing had depended upon the cotton from the South, and with the blockades, business was slowing down. And there were so many immigrants; were the slaves tru
ly to be freed, the immigrants were fearful that their jobs would be taken away. And then, of course, there were rumors of an impending military draft, which did not sit well with the Copperheads, the name by which the Rebel sympathizers called themselves.
All that was but a faint, nagging buzzing, like an insect circling about my head, easily swatted away by the more immediate, personal demands upon my time and attention these days. But Mama and Papa, of course, did not have such pleasant distraction; they lived every day in fear for their soldier sons.
“The boys are all right, aren’t they?” I repeated, anxiously, when they did not reply.
“Yes, dear, as far as we know, they’re fine.” Mama tried to reassure me, but the lines around her mouth deepened, as if from the effort of holding in her constant worry.
“Then what is it? Why do you look so strangely at me? Papa?” I turned to my father. He could not meet my gaze; he sidled back to the gaslight, to further inspect its construction.
“Vinnie, dear, it’s just that—it’s just that we don’t feel entirely comfortable with all—this.” Mama gestured around at the ornate room. But her suddenly furtive eyes betrayed her; I knew instantly that their accommodations were not what she was talking about.
“What do you mean, ‘all this’?”
“I mean, dear, that Papa and I have decided not to stay for the wedding. We came up to bring Minnie, and entrust her to your care. But we have tickets for the train home tomorrow.”
“Oh.” I decided to examine the portiere nearest me; I pulled it to the side and, standing on tiptoe, surveyed the street below, concentrating on the smallest details—the way the Negro man in front of the hotel doorway stood with his heels pressed together, his feet splayed out in a V, like duck feet. I observed how a basket of some kind of fruit—apples, they must be—fell off a wagon as it rounded a corner, and was immediately set upon by a pack of feral children who appeared as if conjured up, for they had not been visible a moment ago. I studied how the filth that gathered between the cobblestones was covered in a filmy sheet of gray ice, and how this dressed it up, made it appear not as it was—a sludge of horse manure, sewage, rotting produce, and who knew what else—but rather like the icing on top of a cinnamon bun.
The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb Page 19