Chapter 3

When Phillip finally left the hospital ward as dawn broke, he discovered about half the circus was asleep in the lobby of the hospital. The staff seemed less than pleased to have Barnum's "freaks" sprawled all over their floor and chairs, but they were too polite to kick them to the street. Lettie came too almost immediately, blinking away what must've been troubled slumber.

She sat up and asked, "How is he?"

The others began to stir and look to Phillip anxiously.

He said wearily, "It's not good. I'm not gonna lie to you. He hasn't come to since the fall. I don't think he's moved on his own. Charity...she's a mess. I think...I mean I wish there was…"

He was so tired and emotionally barren that he couldn't finish a sentence.

Anne came through the door then, spilling pale, dawn sunlight into the sterile room. She crossed to Phillip and threw her arms around him, holding fiercely for several moments.

Then she pulled back and said, "I've been with the girls. I couldn't let them stay alone in that big old house with just the servants."

Phillip shook his head and said, "I lost track of time. I didn't even realize…"

Anne gently wrapped her hands around his jaw and pressed her cheek to his in a way that could usually calm him in the worst of storms, and said, "It's okay, love. I know how much you care for him."

God, he was so grateful for Anne, who loved him in spite of himself. In spite of his impetuous spirit and sometimes fickle emotions. And in spite of having to share him with the circus. Anne understood there are many kinds of love. She loved the trapeze, or anything that let her fly, in a way that she couldn't put into words. It filled something in her that Phillip could not. And that was okay. In the same way, Phillip loved the wild ride of owning and running a circus, and he loved P.T. Barnum, adored him in a way that was altogether separate from Anne. And she understood.

So, for a few moments, she simply held her husband and he grieved the tragedy that had befallen his friend.

When Phillip pulled back, he kissed Anne on the forehead and said, "We should go home." Then, to the room, "All of you...get some sleep. Charity finally laid down in the bed next to P.T. and I think she's out from sheer exhaustion. Anne and I will go home to the girls and bring them back in a bit."

The albino twins slowly nodded, tears on their pale faces. Tom stared at his feet. Lettie looked ready to argue and the others sniffled and looked lost.

One of the acrobats, a tiny woman, asked, "Do they think he's going to make it?"

Phillip ran a hand through his hair and said, "I don't know. They don't know. His legs are broken. His back is broken. There was a lot of blood. They just don't know."

The menagerie of people, most still dressed in their colorful costumes, nodded without true understanding. Phillip could tell that they could not comprehend that P.T. Barnum could be taken down. To them, he was more than human. Lettie had often said there wasn't anything that could take the light out of P.T. Barnum's eyes. So to hear of his condition was breaking them. Phillip also realized that, when he'd told them to go home, most of them didn't know how to do that without their ringmaster. For them, Barnum was their home.

Gently, Phillip said, "As soon as we know anything, I will make sure you all know. Just give me a few hours…"

Tom spoke up, "But what about tonight's show?"

With a tremor in his voice, Phillip said, "The show must go on."

Lettie balked. "Without him?"

"It's what he would want," Phillip returned, trying to sound convinced.

He took Anne's hand and led her outside to the waiting carriage.

Later that morning, Charity woke from a fitful sleep. The nurses had made her lie down after she'd nearly fallen from her chair in exhaustion. Now, she sat up, her eyes wild and her hair askew. She was confused, wondering why her bedroom wasn't lit by the full morning sun. Then, she saw Phinn and remembered.

He was still asleep. Or deeper than sleep. Charity wasn't sure what to call it. He was breathing. She could see the rise and fall of his chest. The nurses had removed all of his ringmaster finery and she realized she was using his red coat as a pillow. Attempting to fold it, she left it on the bed where she had slept and crossed the short distance to her husband. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she studied him.

Phinn was not usually still. He was in constant motion, either making things happening or talking about things he planned to make happen. He could charm money out of politicians and socialites. He moved with grace and purpose, never missing a step, like a purebred racehorse, lithe and strong and with perfect rhythm. But he could also throw sandbags with the best of the roustabouts if the circus tent flooded or if the rigging wasn't holding.

Now, in the quiet ward, Charity tried to memorize him. Her heart ached so badly she could feel it in her throat as she imagined this might be the last way she would see him. The light from the windows was hazy, but Phinn's features stood out in sharp relief to her. The straight nose, the strong line of his jaw, and the mess of dark brown hair that could go from coiffed to out of control with nothing but the touch of her hands. She ran her fingers through it, finding blood. It didn't seem new, so she took a deep breath, wondering if no more bleeding was a good sign. He was dressed in a thin, white gown so the doctor could more easily examine him. The blankets were pulled up to his chest, but Charity could make out his shape. She ran her fingers up his right arm, feeling the strength in him. He was more solid than people realized, and tall, so that his feet touched the end of the bed. He often tried to minimize himself at social functions, because a man who was too imposing, to tall and too beautiful, could scare away investors by upstaging them. Men of means were a narcissistic bunch. But Charity appreciated that he'd never let the scotch and the parties soften him.

As she gently ran her hands over his chest, she remembered one afternoon, just after they were married, when they'd taken a train north to the Catskills for a few days. She remembered hiking through the trees, something she hadn't done since before finishing school, and finding a pristine lake. Phinn had shucked off his clothes, down to nothing, and dove into the water. Her marriage was still so new, she had blushed furiously at seeing her husband naked in the crisp, warm light of dusk.

Her mother's advice for marital intimacy had been, "Avert your eyes and bend to his will."

But Phinn would have none of that. He emerged from the water, dripping wet and so beautiful that Charity couldn't do anything close to averting her eyes. She also couldn't feel the shame her mother had implied she should feel. Instead, she let Phinn strip off her dress and layers of undergarments and pull her into the water. He taught her to swim, something that was "unnecessary" for a lady, and then he hoisted her from the water, naked as birth, and carried her to the shore. Even now, she could feel every curve and angle of him, all the hard and soft places as they had made love on the shore of the lake, clothes forgotten, and only their picnic quilt between them and the sand. It was one of her most treasured memories, and she'd thrown out all of her mother's advice that day. She'd never averted his eyes from Phinn. Ever.

Charity fought back tears, wanting to hold onto the happiness in the memory. She wondered if it was wrong, to imagine making love to him when he was in such a state. She couldn't feel badly, though. She loved him, through and through.

She ran her hands up his neck to his face, brushing her fingers over his chin, which was rough with unshaven stubble. She pressed her palm to his cheek, willing him to open those damned beautiful eyes.

"Please Phinn," she begged softly. "Please look at me again. Please."

She broke down again, finding more tears when she'd thought the well was empty. They ran down her cheeks and dripped onto his skin, but he didn't respond.

After taking Caroline and Helen to their mother at the hospital, Phillip walked aimlessly for a bit. It was still early, and Anne was asleep at home, finally. She couldn't perform without sleep, and she was determined to go on that night. Phillip was sure that the newspapers would be out in full force, ready to ask questions and write about the scandal. He wasn't sure what to say, seeing as he was no investigator. He was afraid the local law enforcement was going to bring in the Board of Trade and try to shut down the circus. Again. Although most of the community had embraced their presence, even if they wouldn't openly admit it, there were still those who despised Barnum and everything he did. Phillip hoped they would have a measure of compassion today.

After walking for about an hour, he realized he was a block from the circus tent. Taking a deep breath, he allowed his feet to carry him the rest of the way. Pushing aside the main entrance flap, he walked through the cue lines and out into the open expanse of the tent. Standing between the risers, he took in the scent of sawdust and sweat, animals and canvas and rope. Sweeping his eyes over the performance arena, Phillip's gaze settled on a dark stain on the ground that the sawdust couldn't hide.

Blood.

Phillip felt sick again.

Simply to have a purpose, to do something, he went in search of the brooms they used to sweep the ring. Seizing the first one he found, he returned to the site of the bloodstain and tried to sweep it away. He swept furiously, kicking up dust and making no progress.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

His thoughts turned morose, and he leaned on the broom. His body ached, and he knew he should try to sleep, to at least rest his body. He would be no good to anyone if he passed out. Walking back toward backstage to return the broom, he glanced at one of the hay bales just beyond the exit. On it, someone had set P.T.'s hat and the cane he usually used to open the show. Phillip had his own, for the nights he performed. P.T. had insisted the younger man have his own ringmaster clothes and accoutrements.

I won't have you trying to fill my shoes. Or my hat, P.T. had stated with a smile. You are your own ringmaster. Own the clothes. Own the role.

At the time, Phillip had laughed. Now, he ached to hear those words again.

Picking up the hat, he carefully turned it over in his hands. It was much like his, but with intricate detailing in the band around the base. This was the last thing P.T. put on before he went out to perform. Every show he was up, he stood at the entrance to the arena and let the lights and the music fill him. He breathed it in. Then he would put on his hat, tip it just so, seize his cane, and take the stage. Phillip had watched him do it hundreds of times. The audience went wild every time. No matter what the critics said about him, the city loved P.T. Barnum. He was magic incarnate, for them, and Phillip could not imagine a world without him. It took his breath and he had to sit down. Setting that hat back on the hale bale next to him, Phillip fought back tears. He wanted to be strong, for everyone, but he was running short on strength.

P.T. was his best friend, the person he admired more than anyone, and Phillip had no idea what to do in a world where this was his circus, alone.

"Are you Phillip Carlyle?" Someone interrupted his thoughts.

Phillip looked up, registered a burly man with a thick beard, and answered, "Yes?"

"Been waiting for you. Name's Murray. Peter Murray. From the Board of Trade."

Shit. It was Phillip's only thought.

"We've been looking at your rigging. We'll be taking a few things with us, including the harness the hospital turned over and some of the ropes and such," Murray stated.

Phillip sighed. Government sure could move quickly when it wanted to. "I understand," he said tightly.

"Thanks for your cooperation," Murray threw back as he headed back out into the arena.

"Are we good to go on tonight?" Phillip asked carefully.

Murray looked him over again, and then slowly nodded before heading back toward the stage.

Phillip once again felt the weight of not having slept. Shuffling further backstage, he went into the tiny office space where he and P.T. balanced books and tossed around new ideas. He glanced around at two years of knick knacks and papers and memories. Then he shook off his vest and shoes, and collapsed onto the makeshift cot made of old quilts to sleep.