CHAPTER 38

Once outside my tent, I found myself at a loss. I had to keep moving, with no desire for Benedict to snap out of his shock and come after me to continue the argument. It was too cold to be out here wearing nothing but my rehearsal dress, which amounted to little more than a corset and petticoat. The breeze was making goose bumps rise on my arms, mixing with the remaining perspiration across my skin, but inside my blood was boiling. How dare he! I had trusted him with one of the darkest parts of my soul, something so shameful to me that I had never told anyone else. I had told him because I loved him and I had never thought he would throw them back at me so cruelly.

"A port in the storm?" Someone called in a thick Bronx accent, and I looked around to see Miss Fleck beckoning to me from the doorway of her tent. At the same moment I become aware of water running down my cheek. Not tears, I hadn't even noticed that it was raining. I nodded, and gratefully ducked into the tent. I was surprised to find that I could stand upright in it, given her dwarvish stature, but then realised that it was a standard sized residential tent, with swathes of red and purple fabric hanging from the ceiling making it see lower than it really was.

"Thank you, Miss Fleck," I said and she shook her head.

"Call me Irene," she said, and I was surprised again. I had never heard anyone say Miss Fleck's name aloud, and found that it rhymed with 'genie'.

"Pick a pew," she invited, and uncertainly I perched on a large silken cushion, embroidered with some kind of oriental lizard.

"Tea?" She offered, nodding to a singing kettle hanging from a tripod over a small fire in the centre of the tent.

"Yes please," I replied, and she clattered around in a tea chest, bringing out a large mug roughly twice the size of Mother's teacups. I thanked her again when she poured the tea and passed me the mug before settling on a cushion of her own, short legs crossed underneath her, the way the Red Indians sat.

"Trouble with your man?" She asked after couple of sips.

"I don't want to talk about it," I knew my reply sounded defensive, but thankfully Irene did not take offense, she just nodded.

"Norton and I use to tear strips off each other all the time," she indicated the photograph hanging from one of the many hooks on her canvas walls. It showed herself dressed in some sort of fairy costume, back to back with a man of the same stature, stripped to the waist and depicting an elf.

"Is Norton your brother?" I asked.

"My husband."

"I didn't know you were married."

"I'm a widow," she smiled sadly. "Like your mother."

"I'm sorry," I said, but she shook her head.

"It was five years ago now, in Boston. There was a carriage accident. But we fought like cats in a sack, even though we loved each other. It's not easy to find love when you're my size."

I wondered if she was trying to make me feel guilty over Benedict's and my fight, as I did not have the restrictions in finding a partner that she did, but somehow it didn't seem like that. She was just stating a fact.

"Have you always worked for shows like this?" I asked, and she grinned, knowing full well that I was changing the subject.

"All my life," she answered. "My parents sold me to a circus when I was nine."

"Sold you?" I was appalled, but she just nodded.

"Best thing that ever happened to me," she said, and I stared at her "I was the only one, you see. My parents, my brothers and sisters, they were all of normal height, I was the only freak."

I had noticed, during my time with the Imaginarium, that people like Irene were free and easy with the word 'freak', using it to describe themselves and their outsider lifestyle, not seeing it as a derogatory term.

"So, when I was sold to Rhonda's, it was a blessing in disguise. I was surrounded by people as unusual as I was. People who were tall or short, or deformed in some way. There was a woman who didn't have any legs at all, and walked on her hands, she was extraordinary." Her brow furrowed. "There were animals, too. Do you know if Mister Y is planning on adding animals to the Imaginarium?"

"He hasn't mentioned it," I replied, as she nodded.

"There's a lot to be said for including them, but they need a lot of care and training, and if that isn't done properly, it's a recipe for disaster. Rhonda was the real beast. Not to me," she added as she saw my expression. "To his wife. He was a brute to her. So when Rhonda was savaged by the lion, the inquest went on for months."

Outside, over the sound of the rain rattling against the tent and the wind shaking the canvas, I could hear Benedict shouting for me. The fury and hurt rushed through me again, and my knuckles whitened around my mug of tea. I wasn't ready to see him again, whether or not he was ready to apologise for his horrible comments.

"What was the outcome of the inquest?" I prompted, and she turned her head from the closed tent flap back to me.

"Inconclusive," she answered. "No one could prove that they lion launched an unprovoked and deadly attack on Mr. Rhonda, but not one could prove that he didn't, either. Needless to say, that meant curtains for Rhonda's Circus." She looked towards one of the canvas walls, by the tent flap, and I realised that her gaze was on a poster hanging there. It was an advertisement for Rhonda's Circus, and the lion featured prominently, jaws open wide and teeth on display. I had a horribly vivid image of what it might be like to be mauled to death by those teeth. As I gazed around the tent, I realised that similar posters were displayed all around it, charting a lifetime within the light entertainment industry. We made our way through a second pot of tea while Irene told me about Bradstreet's Bonanza, who had taken on many of the performers and animals left stranded by the closure of Rhonda's Circus, and their elephants, to Gregson's Travelling Fair, where she had learned her gymnastic skills. She hadn't always worked in freak shows, and had met her husband, Norton Fleck, in the Shakespearean troupe The Minstrels of Venice, with whom they had stayed for five years. The photograph she had shown me had been taken for a newspaper article about their production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. They had officially married when they joined Esther Schmitt's Freak Show, and although there had been a ceremony presided over by a former priest, it had not taken place in a church, there didn't seem to be any documentation and I wasn't sure that the marriage had been legal.

"Why do people call you Miss Fleck?" I asked, and she shrugged.

"It certainly started then," she said. "When I took his name. I was either called Miss Fleck or Mrs Norton, and it just stuck."

It was while they were with Esther Schmitt's Freak Show that Irene had expanded her gymnastic and acrobatic training to include aerial stunts, and found herself in possession of a talent she didn't know she has. Esther Schmitt's had a tent especially set up with the necessary equipment for the gravity-defying performances, which included the trapeze, aerial silk tricks, and tightrope walking.

"Mister Y is going to be introducing it to the Imaginarium when we go to Louisiana," Irene told me. "Providing the funds are available. You probably know more about that then I do."

I shook my head. "Mister Y does not discuss money with me."

We talked more, about her life, her talents, and her relationship with her husband. They were passionately in love, Irene told me, with all the fiery consequences that went along with two such similar temperaments. Norton had become extremely jealous when one of their colleagues, a contortionist named Sergis, had shown an interest in his wife, even though it had not been reciprocated. The two had had a stand-up row in public, followed by Norton getting drunk out of his senses. Under the influence of alcohol, Norton had attempted to castrate the average-height Russian contortionist, using his teeth. It had been an ugly, messy scene resulting in all three of them almost losing their jobs, and a profound lesson to the couple about the consequences of jealousy and strong drink. I wondered, after we had finished our third pot of tea and I had returned to my own tent, having checked that the coast was clear, how much of this story was really true and how much for my benefit. Irene did not want to go into detail about her husband's death, and I understood that it was still painful for her.

"We were in Boston," she said. "And he was crossing the street to join me at the drug store. He got run over by a carriage, the driver didn't simply didn't see him time. They told me he was distraught, and at first he thought he'd hit a child, but I don't remember."

Her voice was tight, and I quickly changed the subject.

xxxxx

I kept my distance from Benedict for three days, which was not difficult given the amount of work that suddenly besieged us both. I might have thought Erik had arranged the workload deliberately, to give us both time to cool down. In truth, once he had made his peace with the knowledge that his pseudo-ward was having a sexual relationship, Erik had no interest in the complexities of that relationship.

Benedict found me in the evening of our third day apart from each other, coming to my tent as I was settling down with a book and a cup of cocoa. He was holding a bouquet of flowers, looking somewhat battered, and had rain dripping from his dark hair.

"Can I come in?" He asked humbly.

"I'm not stopping you," I kept my own tone stoic, since I had just made myself comfortable in my chair, with a blanket draped over my knees and had no intention of moving. He stepped inside, letting the heavy tent flap fall closed, and dripped onto my floor. His mouth opened and closed for a few seconds, then he took a deep breath.

"I was a fool," he said at last. "A drunk, jealous fool. I had no right to attack you like that, especially with something that is already so sensitive to you. I was hurting, and it was all I could think of to make you hurt as well."

"Then I won't be telling you any more of my secrets," I replied coldly. "In case you feel the need to be vindictive again."

"No, no!" He cried, rushing to my side and dropping to his knees next to my chair. "It was a wicked thing to do, and you have my word it will never happen again!"

"You don't trust me."

"I do trust you!" He insisted. "I had no excuse for my behaviour, Meg, but I swear to God it will never happen again. Seeing you dancing like that with that man, it turned my head." He ran his free hand through his hair, his eyes desperate. "But I am so, so sorry for the way I treated you. It was completely unacceptable, and I can only beg you to forgive me. Please, Meg... please forgive me."

I looked at him for a long moment, weighing up my decision against my own feelings. I was sure that he was sincere, but there was no way of knowing if he could keep his promise not to do that to me again. He hadn't been physically cruel to me, the way some men were to their women, and he really did love me.

"Very well, Benedict," I said at last. "But it doesn't mean that I won't remember how much that hurt."

"I promise I won't do it again, Meg."

"And I believe you," I told him. "We just have to move on. Where did you get those?"

I nodded to the flowers, having noticed when he reached my side that they were paper.

"I made them for you. Flowers like these can't be had this time of year."

I smiled, and touched his cheek.

"I love you, Ben," I said. "There isn't anyone else, and there won't ever be anyone else."

He turned his head to kiss my palm.

"The same goes for me," he murmured. "I only want you."

xxxxx

I was very pleased to have my relationship with Benedict back on the right path, but the temporary derailment seemed to have taken its toll on me. With the increased workload and the amount of rehearsals and other tasks I had to perform on a daily basis, I found myself trying to get to bed as soon as feasibly possible. Even so, tiredness dogged my waking hours, and colleagues found that they were repeating themselves, or competing for my wandering attention.

"Are we boring you, Miss Giry?" Erik snapped when he caught me yawning during a singing rehearsal.

"No, sir, sorry, sir," I tried to inject the words with sincerity and energy in the face of his scowl.

I dragged myself though another exhausting week, my body aching in strange ways that reminded me of the winter I had suffered from influenza as a child. It was an unpleasant surprise to learn, during a lovemaking session with Benedict, that my breasts were tender. He hadn't been rough with me—he rarely was—but there was such a streak of discomfort as he massaged my left breast that I had to ask him to stop. It wasn't until a dance rehearsal that I began to get truly worried. The routine was an energetic one, to a composition of Erik's that sounded like it came straight off the stage of a London music hall. I was standing at the front of the stage with my fellow dancers, listening to Mother's notes on the number, when I found the dizziness that accompanies a triple pirouette sweeping over me, and the edges of my vision going dark.

"Meg?" My neighbour nudged me, and I realised Mother had asked me a question.

"I'm terribly sorry," I said, only vaguely aware that the words were in French. "I think I'm going to faint."

The next thing I knew, I was sitting on the edge of the stage with my head between my knees, and someone was stroking my hair. I knew, just from the touch, that it was Mother before I heard her voice.

"Sweetheart, just take some deep breaths."

"I'm all right," I tried to lift my head, but the light pressure of her hand kept me in place.

"Stay still," she told me. "Keep breathing slowly."

I obeyed, but I was already feeling better. It wasn't my first fainting spell, previous occurrences being due to exhaustion, heat and stress. I thanked Julia when she gave me a glass of water and sipped it to show willing.

"I think I should go and lie down," I said when I was allowed to lift my head.

"I think you should," Mother agreed. "And I think you should visit Dr. Gotreich. You've not seemed yourself for a little while now."

I made a non-committal sound and she gave me a knowing look. It should not have come as a surprise to me when I returned from pegging out my laundry the following day to find the doctor waiting outside my tent.

"Good morning, Miss Meg," he greeted me.

"Good morning, Dr. Gotreich," I sighed. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I heard that you fainted yesterday," he said. I wanted to make sure there's nothing sinister afoot."

"I'm quite well, Dr. Gotreich," I insisted.

"Then you don't have anything to worry about." He beamed at me. I clenched my teeth as I smiled, and let him proceed me into the tent.

"Forgive the mess," I apologised belatedly, following him inside and remembering that I had not straightened the bedding that Benedict and I had shared, and that my second lot of laundry was piled on my chair.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he said cheerfully and waited as I cleared the chair.

"Please, sit."

"Thank you." He sat. "Now then, Miss Giry, tell me about this fainting episode."

I shrugged and described it to him.

"And have you had any other occurrences recently?"

"None," I told him firmly. "I've just been fatigued."

He raised an eyebrow. "Have you been having trouble sleeping?"

"No," I admitted. "I've been having strange dreams, but that is not unusual."

He reached out to lay his palm on my forehead and I flinched, attempting to disguise it by pretending I was swatting a fly, which he was not deceived by.

"Temperature seems normal." He seized my wrist and held it, gazing at a spot somewhere over my head. "Pulse is a little elevated, but I think we can attribute that to your dislike of my profession. He twinkled at me, and glanced at my disarranged bedclothes. "How is your appetite?"

"Normal."

"Have you experienced any sickness or nausea?"

"No."

"Be sure to tell me if you do."

"Dr. Gotreich," I sighed. "I went a little dizzy for a few seconds, nothing more. I'm just over-tired, I'm not ill."

"I didn't say you were ill, Miss Giry," the doctor replied mildly. "I think you're with child."

He said something else, but I had been rendered temporarily deaf. With child. The words hit me like a chunk of ice in the stomach, and I felt goose bumps rippling across my skin. With child. Pregnant. Going to be a mother. I had always assumed that I would have a child one day, but in my mind I was married, and living with my husband in the Opera Populairé, at home in Paris. That assumption, that fantasy, had been created long before I had lost my virginity, and before I had chosen to take a lover. It had never been amended to include my American habitat, or even to include the man that I knew I loved, and who loved me. I prodded my feelings as though I were testing a bruise. There were lots, all mixed together, but the one that filled my heart and my belly was fear.

"Miss Giry?" Even though the doctor's voice was gentle, it still made me jump.

"Pardon?"

"When did you last have a monthly bleed?"

"I don't know," I shook my head. "I don't remember. I've never been regular like other women are." My own voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere behind me.

"Meg," Dr. Gotreich laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. "You might not be pregnant, and it is early if you are."

"What are the... the symptoms?" I managed.

"Missing your monthly bleed is a main one," he replied, his voice still gentle. "You will experience sickness and nausea, especially in the morning. You will feel fatigued, your appetite may begin to change, and your breasts will begin to swell and feel tender. Fainting and dizziness are not uncommon."

I nodded, still only half listening to him.

"Would you like me to fetch someone for you? Mr. Adler? Or your mother?"

"No!" I cried. "No. I don't want anyone to know anything until I'm... sure what my condition is."

"Of course," he answered. "If you need me, please come and find me. I am not someone you should be afraid of."

I nodded distractedly. "Thank you, Dr. Gotreich. You're very kind."

It was less than a week later when I staggered from my bed into the grey of pre-dawn, and vomited into the grass beside my tent, until I was sweating and almost too giddy to stand. I may have been fairly uneducated, but I was not stupid. I knew that sex led to pregnancy. I could only be grateful for my luck that it had happened while I was in a loving relationship, instead of when my body had been a commodity to be sold. For all the knowledge frightened me to my very core, there was no denying that I was carrying Benedict Adler's child.