"The shame of the city," P. T. began, holding the New York Herald in his hands, reading the latest review of their circus with wide eyes. Charity sat beside him, ever the supportive wife, resting her head on his shoulder. "The protests commend Mr Barnum's reputation as a purveyor of the offensive and indecent."
The troupe had all gathered, listening intently to James Gordon Bennett's words with disgust and anger. Phoebe sat on a podium, legs crossed, wearing her practice clothes, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She was wearing a pair of golden boots, an addition to her costume that she adored. She tried not to look offended by the nasty remarks in Bennett's review, but it was more easier said than done, as insult after insult was hurled at them all.
Lettie, who was sat in-between Anne and her brother, snorted. "Offensive and indecent?" she repeated, unashamedly combing her beard. "Mr Bennett, I'm blushing."
The eldest Barnum daughter, Caroline, jumped up, donning her matching Lettie beard, and flipped her hair. "No, I'm blushing!" she exclaimed, much to the amusement of all those around her.
Taking note of her daughter's carefree attitude, Charity turned to P. T, folding her skirts over her lap. "What do you care what Mr Bennett thinks?" she asked her husband.
"He's a prig," Lettie pointed out.
"And a snob," Charles added. Despite being the smallest member, he certainly had no problem making his voice heard.
P. T. sighed, setting the newspaper down with a huff. "Yes, and all the snobs in New York read him. He does their thinking for them." The realisation of P. T.'s statement weighed heavily on the troupe, who all knew that he was right. If these words were being read by all the high society folk all over New York, then word would be spreading. Rumours and whispers about Barnum's Circus would be flying all over the city, all of it wildly inaccurate and remarkably degrading. More scandals would bring more protestors, and more protestors would mean more abuse.
"Whatever happened to thriving off controversy?" Anne suggested, optimistically, ever hopeful.
Unfortunately, P. T. didn't seem to share her hopefulness. He looked exhausted. "Yes, well . . . " he trailed off as Phillip appeared, dressed in fine clothes, a top hat in one hand, and a note in the other. Phoebe couldn't ignore the way her heartbeat quickened as Phillip walked in. She caught a whiff of cologne, the pleasant kind gentlemen would wear, and tried not to become overwhelmed by the scent. Suddenly conscious of how she looked, she patted down her hair, to no prevail. The curls were untameable.
"Phillip!" both Barnum daughters cried, running to him. They threw themselves around his legs, and he laughed, greeting them kindly and warmly. Phoebe couldn't help but smile.
"Do you have any thoughts on this?" P. T. asked, holding up the newspaper.
"As a matter of fact, I do," Phillip replied, handing the ringleader the letter.
Curious, the troupe all leaned in as P. T. read yet another set of words, this time with a much more esteemed name printed at the bottom. "Master of the household has it in command that... the Queen invites Mr P. T. Barnum and his theatrical troupe to a reception at… Buckingham Palace?"
Everybody jumped to their feet, jaws dropped to the floor. Nobody could believe their ears. It had to be a joke? A cruel, insensitive farce made at the expensive of the oddities, for why would a palace invite a circus to perform for a Queen? Not even New York theatre critics enjoyed their show, let alone royalty.
"Queen Victoria? Is this real?" Charity spluttered, reading the letter of P. T.'s shoulder.
"I had to pull a few strings," Phillip replied, modestly. She never realised how far up the ladder he was, whilst she had fallen so far now that she'd moved here. What kind of playwright-turned-circus partner has connections in Buckingham Palace? "If you want society to accept you, may as well start at the very top."
As Phillip lifts Caroline up, stroking her false beard to make her laugh, Phoebe looked at Anne and W.D. who were stood together and already looking at her, their faces equally expressing worry. The Whitlock's also had connections to Buckingham palace with their aristocratic status but she'd never attended an event. She could feel her heart sinking, and knew that they were thinking the exact same thing; would the Queen care for coloured acts? She wouldn't be surprised if the Queen of England shared the same distaste for her skin, as many others did. Racism existed worldwide.
"Are we all invited?" Phoebe asked, in a confident voice. The other acts who were of different ethnicities ceased their celebrating as the proposition dawned on them fully. Lettie looked over at Phoebe, and back at P. T., waiting for him to offer them encouragement. He wasn't sure what to say, wasn't sure how to reassure them.
Phillip did.
Phoebe watched as his smile faltered, and then returned, brighter than before. "I guess I'll just have to tell the Queen either all of us go, or none of us will."
Smiling, Phoebe felt a surge of warmth shoot through her body, as Phillip's words reverberated through her mind. Was he really that brave? That he would risk jeopardising a visit to Buckingham Palace because the Queen opposed to a handful of African-American circus acts? He beamed back at her, and she felt the butterflies again, raging inside her chest.
"The Queen of England? Can't get much better than that," Charles cried, grinning.
Phillip span Caroline around in his arms, causing her to giggle. Helen tugged at his coattails until he eventually swooped down and picked her up in his arms, twirling them both around. Phoebe was mesmerised by Phillip's natural way with the girls, as though he were their big brother. Waving at her, Helen called Phoebe's name, telling her to watch.
"I'm watching, darling, I'm watching," Phoebe laughed.
As the rest of the troupe began to spill out, disappearing upstairs to their rooms, or backstage to prepare for the show that night, Phoebe was still watching Phillip with the little girls, a smile playing on her lips. Their laughter was infectious.
Suddenly, Helen sped over and leapt into Phoebe's arms. Years of trapeze practice meant that Phoebe had very quick reflexes, and good upper body strength, which all came into good use when one of the Barnum daughters would throw themselves at her. Hoisting her up, Phoebe held the nine year old, who began chattering away about her day at school, when she noticed the marvellous, satin shawl Anne was wearing. Eyes lighting up, Helen caressed the soft fabric, as Phillip made his way over, Caroline pulling him along.
"This is lovely," she cooed.
"Thank you, it was a gift," Phoebe replied, smiling fondly at the girl.
"Whoever gave you it must love you very much," Caroline chimed in.
"It was my Mother's," Phoebe answered, reminiscing of the day she received it. It was the day before she left England. Her mother came in before she retired, her eyes watery and makeup smudged. Amelia spoke that night of how happy she had Phoebe, that she was the sunshine of her life, her little angel who had to fly free. She knew she'd always have to let Phoebe go one day but it was the hardest thing she had to do, to stop protecting her and let her experience the entire world. Phoebe's mother wrapped her teary daughter in the beautiful shawl, Phoebe could remember that during her entire childhood, all she wanted was that beautiful shawl, embroidered with flowers and exotic birds. "To remind you of us, to make sure you come home one day." She'd said.
"Where is your mother?" Helen asked, out of curiosity rather than rudeness.
"Helen!" Charity gasped, appearing by their side, P. T. at her shoulder.
"I don't mind," Phoebe said, giving a small smile. "My mother is back in London, with my father, I haven't seen them in a long time."
"Is they dead?" Caroline whispered.
"Caroline!" P. T. hissed, eyes wide. "Phoebe, I'm so sorry."
Phoebe shook her head. "It's alright," she assured them, and turned back to the little girls. "No, they aren't dead, I received a letter from them yesterday. They are healthy and happy. I just miss them desperately."
The girls hung their heads in sadness, Helen even wrapping her arms around Phoebe's neck, in an attempt to comfort her. Catching Philip's eye, she saw not sympathy, but compassion. That little difference meant more to her than she realised, as heart skipped a beat.
Charity gathered up the girls, prying an unwilling Helen off of Phoebe, who promised to come round for dinner that week. Satisfied with her answer, Helen left skipping, Caroline not far behind. Smiling, Charity reached out and placed a warm hand on Phoebe's own, and assured her that she was more than welcome to visit for dinner, and that she could come that night if she wasn't busy. Phoebe obliged she'd love to spend more time with the Barnums.