Chapter 2

Phillip was certain he didn't look nearly as heroic carrying P.T. from the circus tent as his mentor had carrying him two years earlier. P.T. was at least six inches taller than him, and Phillip was still a society boy in so many ways, preferring ticket sales or wooing investors as his daytime chores rather than slinging sandbags. He didn't feel like a hero, even as the remaining patrons gawked and stared. He hadn't run into a burning building without regard for his own safety. As best he could figure, he'd merely allowed his partner, his friend, to fall from more than thirty feet.

I should've checked the ropes. I should've checked the ropes, he told himself over and over, cursing himself for letting P.T. attempt the stunt in the first place.

Anne flies from the rigging every night.

He shook off that thought. Phillip didn't need more worry and right now the idea of also finding his wife sprawled on the floor of the circus was more than he could bear.

Outside, the doctor's carriage was waiting. Henry had followed through on one of his most important responsibilities as backstage manager - call for the doctor at the moment of any injury. Phillip carefully laid his friend across the back seat. Charity climbed in, sliding carefully into the seat so that she could cradle her husband's head and shoulders in her lap. She held a cloth to the back of his head, but there was still blood everywhere. Blood on her hands. Blood on her blue satin dress. Blood in her pale hair.

Phillip turned and thought he might be sick.

The girls appeared next to him, having followed him from the tent. Helen hiccuped through her crying, her face streaked with tears. Caroline held back her emotions, stoically holding her sister up. Phillip signaled for P.T. and Charity's carriage, which waited for them outside the tent, per usual. As the doctor's carriage clattered away toward the hospital, Phillip helped the girls into their seats.

The ride, which lasted several blocks, was painfully silent.

At the hospital, they waited in the cramped and suffocating lobby for what felt like days. Phillip wrung his jacket between his hands, having also pulled his cravat lose. His hat had been left at the circus, forgotten in the chaos. Charity and the girls sat to his right, Helen curled into a ball in her chair, her dress hopelessly rumpled. She sobbed softly. Caroline stared out the murky windows with silent tears staining her face. Charity, however, remained terribly silent. She still hadn't said anything. Her face was ashen, making the blood stains stand out more on her skin and clothes, but she sat straight, almost rigid, gripping Caroline's hand.

"Charity," Phillip started to speak.

She shook her head, refusing to meet his eyes, and kept her lips tightly sealed.

After more than an hour, the doctor returned. After confirming his name was John, he sat down across from Charity. She stared at him, stone-faced.

"Mrs. Barnum," he started.

"Charity. Don't be formal with me. Not now. We know each other too well," she snipped.

John sighed. "Very well. Charity...your husband…" he glanced at the children.

Phillip thought he heard a crack in her voice as she demanded, "Is he gone?"

Slightly taken aback, John shook his head, his silver hair disheveled from whatever he'd been doing for the past hour. "No," he stated. "But his condition is grave."

Charity put one arm around each of her children and said, "Just tell us."

"He has a fracture to his head, in the back. His right leg is broken in several places, some of them very hard to set. His left leg has a more simple fracture. And he may have another break in his back...in the spine. Unfortunately, we can't tell exactly where, but I've enough years at this to think it's just above the hips. He's also bled very severely and, although a lot of doctors think that to be a good thing with illness, I've found that not to be the case with injury."

Charity drew a deep breath. "What are we to do?"

The doctor sighed again. "Unfortunately, what we can do, we have already done. The bones are set the best I can. He's lucky to have been asleep for all that. I've stitched the wounds and treated the bandages with carbolic acid, a new concept I've been reading about. It's supposed to prevent sepsis. Now, we can only wait."

Charity nodded, and Phillip felt like he'd been sucker-punched in the gut. He didn't know a lot about medicine, but he knew enough to realize that if his partner hadn't come around by now, things were grave indeed.

"Can we see him?" Phillip made his voice work.

John glanced at the children.

Charity looked at Phillip. "Why don't you have the driver take them home?"

Caroline looked like she might argue, but Charity gave them a look that silenced her. Then she said, "In the morning, girls. You can come back."

Phillip led both girls outside to where their carriage waited. He helped them both inside and asked the driver to take them home. Not sure what in the world he could possibly say, he simply offered, "Your father is strong. The strongest man I know."

They nodded, and the carriage pulled away.

Back inside the hospital, Phillip found the lobby empty. Pushing his way through the heavy door that led to the patient rooms, he found the doctor in the hallway. He said, "She's just through there. Second door on the right. Lucky it's a slow night. Only one other patient in that ward."

Phillip tried to smile.

He walked slowly down the hallway, terrified of what he might find. He had never, in all his life, lost someone to such a horrific injury. He was sheltered, and he was feeling it now more than ever. He stopped just inside the door of the ward, which was lit by soft lamps. In the dim light, he saw Charity. She was sitting in a wooden chair by her husband's bed. P.T. was covered with a blanket, but Phillip could tell his right leg was splinted along the entire length. The nurses had stripped him of the blood spattered clothes and folded them on the table by the bed. His boots were lying at Charity's feet. P.T.'s head was wrapped in bandages. His eyes were closed, and Phillip could have sworn he was dead. The worst part of the scene, however, was Charity. She held her husband's right hand tightly in hers, both of their knuckles pressed to her face. In her left hand, clutched to her abdomen, was the red showman's coat. Charity sobbed openly. Her tears shook her small frame, and Phillip almost couldn't bear it.

He stepped back out of the room, leaned against the wall, and swallowed hard.

He could still hear her, and she whispered in between sobs, "Phinn. Please, Phinn...I love you…"

When he shook on the deal to join the circus three years ago, Phillip never imagined this. There had been hard times, but P.T. always found a way. Their troubles had mostly been over money, since the fire, and Phillip knew how to throw money at things. He knew how to resolve arguments with a wink and a smile. But this, he had no idea how to fix this. He had no idea how to let himself feel this without breaking. Suddenly, loss greater than he'd ever imagined, a loss only short of losing Anne was upon him, and he was ill-prepared.

Charity needs you.

It was all he knew for certain. So he took a deep breath and went into the ward.