His cravat bites at his throat like an angry lover. Phineas claws at it, but stops when Jenny walks onto the stage.
The stage is low and wooden and sits in the centre of a torchlit striped circus tent. This Midwestern town is wild to see Jenny, the Swedish Nightingale, but cannot furnish her with a theatre.
So Phineas gave her this tent, a stage bigger than any she's performed on before, bigger than Covent Garden, bigger than La Scala. And by definition it is in the round, so for practical purposes he's had the woodwork guys rig up a kind of proscenium and wings, so that she can make an entrance and stand, perfectly framed.
The folks at the back will only see the outline of her, but they won't care. Tomorrow's show is sold out.
Jenny, the professional, has not flinched from this unusual venue, but she wanted to get some practice in before tomorrow.
Phineas is tired, more tired than he has ever been, but he said yes when she appeared in his hotel bedroom requesting - demanding - an escort to the circus.
He could hardly say no. He may be the owner, the man with his name emblazoned on the posters and the train that brought them here, but he is also the ringmaster. The show, on tour, is in his care. So the letters to his wife, his children, go unfinished while he consoles homesick acrobats, sorts out elephant food, and escorts an opera star to a field in the middle of nowhere.
The orchestra stayed behind. They're mostly asleep after the day-long journey out here, and anyway, Jenny does not need them.
She wears rose-coloured silk, folds and folds of it, which rustle a sensual accompaniment to her every move. Despite the cool night air, she has cast off her coat. It lies in the dark near Phineas' feet, the epitome of abandon. Jenny's dress shows off her arms. Her shoulders are bare.
She is beautiful. No doubt of it. From the side of the stage, she is in profile. Her throat makes an elegant line into her decolletage. Full, very full. He oughtn't to look, but he's only a man. Her glorious red hair, loosely pinned at the back of her head, tumbles careless strands over the creamy slope of her neck and down...
Phineas drags his eyes from the rose-coloured lacing in the curve of her spine.
"You all right?" he says.
She flashes him a smile which could stop a train. He pictures it - locomotives veering off track into the wilderness, wheels screaming, steam blaring a helpless trail in Jenny's wake. "Perfect," she says. "You needn't stay."
Well, there's the thing. First, he can't leave her here alone in this circus tent in a field of grass. Second, he doesn't want to.
He waves a hand at her to carry on, take no notice of him.
She nods and turns to the imagined audience. Her focus is appropriately dead ahead, but he senses her attention on him, only him, as she breathes deep.
She sings.
He has things to do. He could check the spotlight, and the limelights, make sure they're not burning too hot.
He doesn't move.
She sings. Her voice catches at his throat, catches at his heart. His chest tightens and fills, flooded with the sound of her, pure sorrow, pure joy.
Out there in the dark is her audience, but although she faces the empty seats, she sings for him.
He has pretended from the start not to notice. He has attributed it to her sheer power - she can silence a theatre packed with hicks and harlots. She makes cowboys cry.
All the same, he knows damn well she sings for him. Every day in the carriage, she sits a little closer to him. Every night after the show when he walks her to her door, she lingers a little longer with her gloved hand on his sleeve, wishing him Goodnight in a voice that pleads Kiss me.
He nearly has. Nearly. -Only about a dozen times. Every solitary hotel pillow is about equal parts relief and regret.
Jenny is pure magic. He cannot kiss magic and come out unscathed.
Her song, of longing and loss, shivers down to the last note, the last breath.
The tent falls silent but for crickets in the grass and the hiss of the lights
Phineas rubs his hand across his brow. He never took a breath in that last verse. He gulps in air, pulls himself together.
"I turned down Hans Christian Andersen," Jenny announces to the darkened auditorium. "I turned down Chopin!"
Who's Chopin? One of those French chefs. Phineas makes a noncommittal noise to let her know he heard.
"I came here because of you," she says in a low voice. "You, Phineas. You were my dream."
"Likewise," he says quickly, "the dream of bringing your sweet voice to the American people -"
"You hear me," she says. "Really hear me. I know it."
He can't deny it. The power she has over him. "Yes I do."
"Then -"
She turns her face to him, and lays one gloved hand over her heart, stretching the other out toward him.
How can he explain? Her declaration is so bold that it deserves an answer. The answer is No, of course it is, it must be. Whatever her beauty, whatever her... his mind stumbles over the idea ... her magnetism - he made a promise. And promises should not be broken.
Oh, but if they could, if they only could -
Home seems far away right now, and the promise, just a bright dot on the East horizon. Phineas cannot recall, at this moment, his wife's face.
Jenny stands alone on the stage, breathing hard, not looking at him. She doesn't need to look, and she knows it.
If it weren't for his promise -
But not all wishes come true.
Jenny steps abruptly out of the spotlight. She fades, vanishing into darkness, and he has lost his chance to give her, at least, some kind of answer.
Dammit.
She makes a noise, a hitch of her breath, a mere echo of her voice, and suddenly Phineas knows what to do.
He strides onto the stage and into the bright circle of the spotlight. There is no music, except in his head. Nevertheless he takes a breath, opens his mouth, and his song emerges, the unheard twin to her own.
His voice is dark and raw compared to hers, but she stops still, turns to him. Her face tilts yearningly towards him, her eyes are full of tears, and his voice soars.
I'm trembling in the wings
Let it stay this way
You make my dream begin
My heart's beating to your voice
And I see your hand
It's my impossible choice
Too much to lose
And I can't share this with you
But darling I see you, and
/
The whisper in my heart of home dies
In the promise of your bright eyes
You'll always own a part
The circus of my heart
/
If I could split myself in two I'd
Give up half my heart to you I'd
Never be apart
Never be apart
/
From you
/
Never, never-
He cannot reach the note she strikes, and stutters to a halt.
Jenny approaches.
What can he do? He has admitted what is in his heart. But twined with that confession is his duty, which must be elsewhere.
Jenny extends her hand to him. Tears glitter on her cheeks.
He kisses her glove, turns her hand over, kisses her bare wrist, and feels her shiver. "The hotel," he says. "Early start tomorrow."
His lips recall the taste of her skin, all the way back to the hotel.
"Letter for you, Mr Barnum," says the night porter.
Phineas takes it. Jenny's gaze is fierce on him as he puts it in his coat.
They climb the stairs to their bedrooms and Phineas brings Jenny to her door, like always. "Goodnight," he says.
"It can't be goodnight, after that."
He says nothing. What can he add?
She whispers, "Please."
The letter presses close to his heart. He grasps her hand and folds her fingers over his own, pushes them against his heartbeat. He and Jenny stand while his heart makes a desperate rhythm against his ribs.
Can she feel the wish, the wish to stay and find out how hot magic burns?
He releases her hand. "Goodnight," he says again, and turns swiftly towards his own door.
In his room, alone at last, he rips off the cravat. There's a pain in his chest, but it will fade. It must.
If I could split myself in two I'd
Give up half my heart to you I'd-
It must.