Chapter 36

Benedict's nose was broken in two places and his cheekbone fractured. Even as Dr Grotreich treated him, the bruising was blossoming around his eyes and they were swelling shut. I had no sympathy for Erik's bruised knuckles and no heed for the leftover sting of my backhanded cheek.

Once Benedict was in the doctor's capable hands, Mother took me firmly by the elbow and led me from Erik's tent and into her own. She may have prevented Erik from giving me the beating he so clearly thought I deserved, but if her tongue had been a physical instrument, Mother would have blistered me raw. While she acknowledged that I was now an adult with my own needs and desires, she had expected more of me. She had expected me to have better self-control and to wait until I was married before having sex. It hurt on a deep, primal level that she was so disappointed in me, that she was ashamed of me, but there was no way to reverse the clock. At the height of her rage, when the tears threatened through my own anger, I was sorely tempted to admit everything; the sexual favours I had done for Erik's investors, how I had earned my keep in New York, how it had all begun with Granjin. I wanted to scream that I had given up my innocence for her and for Erik, and that now I deserved to relish the joys of the flesh. But it would do nothing but give her more grief, and I already knew that such activities would remain in the past. Now that I had Benedict, I would remain loyal to him. There would never be anyone else.

I could feel the eyes of my colleagues on me when I finally got away from Mother's wrath, but did not meet any of them and tried not to think how many might be judging me.

A week after my interrupted coitus, during a night where rain pattered against my canvas roof, I was awoken from a light slumber by the light of an oil lamp in my tent and knew with immediate certainty that I was not alone. It was not the first time Erik had watched me sleep – he had done so when I had shared a dormitory with Christine in Paris – but it was unnerving to the point of frightening to find him lurking in my tent in the middle of the night.

"What are you doing in here?!" I hissed, bolting upright in my cot. "Get out!"

He did not move from where he sat in my small chair, his legs crossed, resting his chin on his left fist. He was still fully dressed, despite the fact that it had been gone midnight when I had gone to bed and must now be the early hours of the morning.

"Do you really love the boy?" He asked in French.

"Yes," I replied in the same language, rubbing at my eyes. "I do. I told you that I do."

"I wondered if you were dissembling."

"I have no reason to lie, Erik. You've been in love; you know what it does to someone." The light glinted off his mask as he inhaled, tilting his head like a bird. "I wouldn't have asked Benedict to make love to me if I hadn't been in love with him. He makes me happy. He is the person I look forward to seeing every day, the person I want to tell if something amuses or upsets me. The person I think of without meaning to, the person I miss... even if we're only away from each other for a few hours. I told you before and I'll repeat it: he didn't force me. He only did what I asked him to. We have passion and desire as well as love. You have experienced that, I know you have. But you couldn't act on that passion, and we could." I sat forward to make my point as he watched me with those intense eyes. "We took each other, Erik. And there is no one but each other. I'm not a slut and Benedict is not a cad. Maybe society would have preferred that we wait until we were married before we indulged our physical desires, but on our first night together we made promises that there wouldn't be anyone else. Neither of us is going to be sleeping around. If you don't trust that, then you should fire us both. We'd have to be a couple then, if we wanted to survive."

He looked at me in silence for a long moment, then picked up the oil lamp from the floor and moved to the tent flap.

"Another thing," I added, and he paused, keeping his back to me. "Since Benedict and I began courting, I have only had one nightmare. He does me good. And if you were to lose him then you would lose one of the most brilliant and talented carpenters in your employ, who chose to work for you because he respects you and the way you do business."

He left without speaking and without looking at me again, and I could only hope that my little speech would sway him. Mother would not see me ejected from the Imaginarium, but there was nothing she could do to prevent Benedict's expulsion.

xxxxx

Whatever words were spoken between them, Benedict was allowed to maintain his employment, and we had to be more discreet than ever. While we were openly still in a relationship, caution meant that we cut down drastically on the times we were intimate together. It felt like we were keeping a secret between us, but not in the fun, exciting way it had felt before. Now, instead of that, our time together was filled with guilt because I knew how much Mother disapproved, even though I was sure that both she and Erik knew when I was not sleeping alone. There had been murmurings in a jokey way that Benedict and I were sleeping together, but since we had been so publically exposed, we became the subject of gossip and unsightly comments.

I was present on a Monday night in the Galley, where Benedict and his friends had joined with a number of the other men who worked for Erik for a game of cards. The alcohol had been flowing throughout the evening, and Harry Murphy, a heavily tattooed Scotsman billed as The Illustrated Man, had imbibed more than his share. I wasn't familiar with the game and wasn't one of the players, but still wanted to spend time in Benedict's company. We were comfortable enough that just being in the same room was enjoyable for us, without being involved in the same activity. I was reading a few chairs away, leaning back in the chair with my boots up on the long trestle table, and a group of other women who were involved with the card players were either chatting, reading like myself, or sewing further away.

"Why don't we put a stake on it?" I heard Murphy say in his strong Scottish brogue. It was one of the accents that I truly struggled to interpret, a thicker and somehow more guttural sound than Irish lilt. A female voice with the same accent was easier, but men with such a brogue took a little work to decipher. Maybe it was less about the accent than the dialect, tone and pitch.

"What did you have in mind?" Someone asked.

"Miss Giry."

I looked up at the sound of my name to see Murphy grinning at me through his heavy beard, his eyes bloodshot and what little I could see of his face flushed with drink.

"Whoever wins the game wins a night with the lovely Miss Giry over—"

He hadn't even finished the indecent proposal before Benedict had leapt to his feet, scattering his cards across the table, and sent Harry Murphy sprawling with a single punch to the jaw. Even as Murphy's chair crashed to the floor, Benedict swung around, clutching his fist to his chest and mouthing a silent expletive, his face clearly demonstrating the pain radiating through his knuckles. I got to my feet as Murphy was struggling to his own, his lip bleeding, and Benedict reached across the table to grab him by the shirt.

"Don't you ever say things like that about Meg again," he hissed in a voice as dangerous as Erik's could be. "Or I'll do more than just bloody your lip."

We left the Galley together, out into another shower of light rain, and Benedict began to swear under his breath. The words may have been in Gaelic but I did not need a translation to understand the gist.

"Ben, Ben," I took his hand in mine and brought his reddened knuckles to my lips. "Thank you."

I kissed them gently, one by one.

"They don't say those things about you," he said, still breathing heavily. "Not while I'm around. They won't get away with saying those foul things!"

I let go of his hand and took his face between my palms, careful of his still-healing cheekbone.

"I think news of your reaction will spread fast enough. They can think whatever ugly thoughts they want, but they won't say them after tonight. Everyone will know you defended my honour."

He pressed his lips to mine.

"Is breá liom tú," he murmured.

"Je t'aime aussi," I murmured back. "Toujours."

xxxxx

While my relationship with Benedict remained strong, the relationship between Mother and I was strained to the point where I was afraid it might be broken altogether. We hardly spoke to each other, and when we did speak it was in the polite, stilted tones of those forced to do so. It broke my heart to be estranged from her, especially as the anniversary of my father's death approached. It also raised my anxiety levels to the point of paranoia; I became convinced when I saw Mother and Erik in conversation that they were talking about me. After all, everyone else was. I was jittery, jumping at unexpected noises and spending my nights worrying myself into restless sleep. At one point I stood by Erik's tent to deliberately eavesdrop on them, only to discover that they were discussing the budget for new costumes.

On the morning of the anniversary, I went into Mother's tent with a chest so full of emotion that I felt my heart might burst if I did not say what I had to. Mother was applying make-up with the aid of a small mirror attached to the central tent pole, and spun around to face me when she saw my reflection behind her.

I was ready to deliver a speech similar to the one I had given Erik, about how I was an adult now, how happy my relationship with Benedict made me, how there was nothing that could be done to stop our intimacy. And how much it hurt, right down to the bone, that she was so angry and unyielding. Instead, all that emotion dissolved into a stream of tears.

"You have to forgive me!" I wept. "You have to forgive me!"

"Oh, Meg," her arms went around me. "My little Meg…"

"You have to forgive me…" I sobbed into her shoulder, and she rocked me, stroking my hair.

There were no more words said, no apologies or excuses; we just fell back into being mother and daughter again. It wasn't the same—things would never be the same again, but it was at least better. I told Benedict that Mother and I had mended our rift and that it was the anniversary of Papa's death, but could not bear to go into the details of his suicide. He was very understanding that this was a private grief; he had suffered a similar loss as a child when his older sister Brigid had died.

xxxxx

The following week, Erik called a meeting, assembling all his employees in the Galley. I was pleased and proud that it was a bit of a squeeze to fit us all in there, since Erik's ranks had swollen considerably since the Imaginarium had first begun its travels less than a year before. Even with his unusual height, Erik stood on a chair so that he could address everyone and ensure that he would be heard.

"Ladies and gentleman, thank you for your attention. As you will be aware, our tenancy here will be ending shortly, and we will be moving on to Florida. We have been granted access to land in Florida by a local man who will let us stay there for the entirety of the winter season and into March. However, after careful consideration, I have decided that we will not be open to the public during this period."

I felt my eyebrows go up and there was a storm of murmuring all around me.

"There are several reasons for this," Erik raised his voice a little until the murmurs died down. "It is very unusual for performance venues such as ours to be open during the winter season and they do not attract much revenue. I am considering putting on a Christmas show and carol concert for the public in Advent week, but they will be the only performances. You will all be paid," his voice grow louder again as he correctly addressed the main concern of his employees. "Throughout this period, unless you choose to take leave to spend the festive season with your families. However, just because we are not performing does not mean that you will not be working, and believe me you will be working hard. We will be using the time to create new acts, sideshows, stalls and regenerating the design of the Imaginarium. This is not an excuse for any of you to…" he paused, searching for the right word. "Neglect your duties. We will present the public with a fresh show in the spring. If you have any questions, you may come and speak with me in my tent."

He made his way out from the Galley and one or two people followed him, clearly having questions about his announcement. Everyone else chattered and either started queuing up for food, or drifting off individually or in small groups. I found myself worrying again as I got my supper. Three months with no income sounded like a recipe for disaster to me, especially after the losses we had suffered in the fire, and I wondered how Erik planned on recouping it. He must have something truly spectacular in mind for the following spring.

I was to discover, when we reached Florida, that Erik had been entirely serious when he had said that not being open to the public did not mean we would not be working. Any hopes I had of a restful winter were dashed very quickly. When I wasn't learning new dance routines, I was learning new songs. When I wasn't singing or dancing, I was playing the piano to accompany another performer. Other duties included making costumes or painting scenery and props, and that was on top of the laundry and cleaning chores I had anyway. I was sure that Erik's plans for his Christmas productions would be a success. The first was a children's play involving a magical quest through the heart of winter to find a gift for the baby Jesus, which I found charmingly innocent. It had been written so that the children of the Imaginarium could be involved in the production alongside their parents, and was good family entertainment. The second was a candlelit carol concert that would take place on the day before Christmas Eve.

"Christmas Eve eve," Benedict joked when I told him the date.

A local printer was producing the posters and fliers for us, and I had the rare opportunity to spend time in the town that the Imaginarium was on the outskirts of, distributing them to local retailers, rather than remaining in a farmer's field for days and or weeks on end. It was a pleasure for me to be in urban surroundings again, and I found myself longing for the days when we would be back in a metropolis, and remembering Erik's intention to establish the Imaginarium on a permanent basis on Coney Island. When would that be? Not soon, I considered, given our current financial situation.

The reaction to a travelling fair in the area provoked mixed reactions. Some were happy to display the posters and advertise our presence, others wanted nothing to do with us, and still more looked at me like I was horse manure when I requested that they put one of our posters in their shop window. I had noticed that the ethnicities of the public were becoming more and more diverse the further from New York we travelled, and such was the case here in Florida. While the majority were white, there was an increase in the copper skins of those of Native American descent, the café au lait and Spanish-style accents of people who had come North from Mexico, and more people with skin ranging from the brown of a nut to the deep richness of dark chocolate. I could count on one hand the number of black people I had seen when I lived in Paris, but over here it was different, and I knew a war had been fought to liberate the black man from his white oppressor. I couldn't help noticing, however, that all of the shopkeepers I spoke to were white.

"Surely," said a very bright and chirpy blonde woman in a pawnbroker's when I asked if she would be willing to put a poster for the Imaginarium in the window. "Happy to."

The accents were different down here too, the pitch a little higher, the vowels longer, and in the case of this woman cheerful to the point of mania. I thanked her as a man in a dark suit emerged from a back room with a bracelet on a blue cushion and used a set of keys to open a glass case displaying jewellery.

I paused as the glitter caught my eye, and I decided that they were probably glass rather than real gemstones, verified when the man propped up a cardboard price tag against the cushion.

"Can I help you, miss?" He asked when he saw me watching, and I caught the edge of suspicion in his tone. It wasn't usual; many people were distrustful of what they called 'carnie folk' such as myself. I smiled and made sure that he could see both my hands were around my posters and I could not be stealing any of his merchandise.

"I was just looking, sir," I hesitated again as my gaze found a necklace on a silver-coloured chain. Again, not real silver, judging by the price.

"That pendant on the second shelf," I nodded to it. "Who is that a picture of?"

I smiled and nodded when he told me.

"I'd like to buy it, please."

xxxxx

The children's Christmas production was an amiable and enjoyable show that ran fairly smoothly despite the backstage antics. I helped with the changes of costumes, making sure props were in place, assisted with the changing of the scenery, and whispered the words from the wings when eight-year-old Georgiana Anderson forgot her lines. The concert, Carols by Candlelight was magical. Any person that Erik considered could sing had been drafted in, and the amount of rehearsals he had forced upon us produced results I had not expected. For an evening, it was like being back in the company of the professional singers of the Opera Populairé as the multi-layered harmonies of old and new Christmas carols soared through the candlelit darkness.

Benedict and I had intended to go to midnight Mass together on Christmas Eve, but after weeks of drafting, creating and painting new set pieces, props and scenery, being almost solely in charge of crewing the children's show, and ensuring that the dozens—maybe even hundreds of candles—used in the concert did not cause another fire, he had succumbed to a nasty cold. His frequent, explosive sneezing echoed through the Christmas night. I reflected that it did probably not disturb the children in the surrounding tents who would have been told that the sooner they went to sleep the sooner Saint Nicholas would visit, and would nevertheless be lying awake in wide-eyed excitement.

"Bless you," I gave him a fresh handkerchief and took his soiled one, tossing it into the laundry pile in the corner of his tent. He grunted in thanks and bent his head over the basin of hot water to inhale the steam along with the nicotine from an increasingly soggy cigarette.

"The cigarettes probably aren't helpful," I observed as I mixed honey and a dash of brandy into tea.

"They're good for you," he replied in a thickened voice. "Opens up the lungs, helps me to breath."

I brought the mug over to him and sat opposite, draping a towel over his head and mine so that another tent formed between us to be filled with the steam. I could smell the honey and brandy and the cigarette.

"All these advances in modern medicine," he grumbled. "And we still cannot find a cure for a common cold."

His dark curls were beginning to flop over his forehead as the steam dampened them.

"It's not the ideal way to spend Christmas," I agreed.

"Or first Christmas together, and I'm laid up."

I smiled a little. "Would it make you feel better to have your Christmas present now?"

Benedict gave me a baleful look.

"As pretty as you are, darling, I'm not in the mood for such strenuous activity at the moment."

"Not that," I laughed and slapped him lightly on the arm. "I meant an actual present."

I took the wrapped parcel from the pocket of my dress and the smile lit up his face, despite the tired eyes and cherry-red nose.

"Oh, darling," he took it from me. "Can I open it now?"

"Of course," I hoped he would like it, and removed the towel from both of our heads.

His fingers undid the ribbon and the festive red paper to bring out the second parcel, this one made from velvet left over from a costume making session. He unwrapped this as well, and lifted out the round pendant on its silver chain.

"A St. Christopher," he observed, smiling again.

"Patron saint of travellers," I nodded. "I saw it, and I thought of you."

"Thank you, darling." He undid the clasp and put the chain around his neck so that the pendant rested against his chest, the symbol of a man carrying a child across water.

"I always wondered about that story," I commented.

"The story of St. Christopher?"

"Mmm. Christopher carries a boy on his shoulders across a river, and the boy gets progressively heavier and heavier. And then when they get to the other side, it transpires that the boy is the full-grown Jesus Christ."

"If I'm recalling correctly, yes, although I think in some versions Christ remains as a boy. What's to wonder about?"

"Well," I scratched my ear. "Couldn't Jesus walk on water?"

Benedict looked at me for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

"I adore the way your mind works," he kept laughing until it became a coughing fit and I patted him on the back as he choked into his handkerchief. He was still grinning when the coughing passed. "I think there may be more to the story than that. We'll have to find out sometime. Now, this gift reminded you of me. Would you like the gift that reminds me of you?"

"Yes please." I beamed as widely as a child about to open a stocking.

Benedict reached underneath his mattress and took out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine. I unwrapped it carefully to find a beautiful wooden box carved with Celtic designs.

"This is beautiful," I said, running my thumb over the carvings and feeling my heart begin to thump. "Did you make it?"

"I did indeed. Open it."

I didn't want to open it, because I had a horrible feeling that I knew what it was, but I had no choice. I slowly lifted the lid and felt the jolt to my stomach when I saw the ring.

"Don't panic!" Benedict cried as he saw my face. "It's not an engagement ring. It's just a ring."

The silver band came together with two hands holding a heart, which had been topped by a crown.

"It's beautiful," I repeated, and he gave me an understanding smile.

"They come from Ireland," he explained. "The same county I come from, County Galway. There's a little fishing village called Claddagh where someone started making these rings nearly two hundred years ago. The hands represent friendship, the crown is loyalty, and the heart is love."

I smiled back at him, delighted as I lifted the ring from the box, examining it to see which finger it would fit.

"There seems to be some confusion over which hand it's supposed to be worn on," Benedict continued. "It reflects your relationship with the person who gave it to you." His eyes met mine. "Wear it with the heart pointing towards you, Meg. It means you belong to someone."

He gently took the ring from me, and slipped it onto the index finger of my right hand, the heart facing inwards.

"Thank you, Ben," I told him as I kissed his lips, poorly as he was. "I am delighted to be yours."