Sorry it's been a bit. I'm in the middle of a show and some crazy work stuff.

In this chapter, I reference a musical number. In the movie, we all know that the music and choreography are modern, in spite of the time frame. It was a creative choice in the film. I wanted to reference the music as we know it, while accepting that in the mid-1800s, the only way to have live music was with musicians. Hopefully we can all use some creative license and go with it. ;-)

Chapter 10

Phillip laughed out loud. In hindsight, he could see how rude it was, but he couldn't help himself. In the moment, fatigue combined with the stress of the past few weeks came together to make the idea of the woman in front of him acting as Ringmaster so preposterous that he laughed.

She stared him down, not amused and not deterred.

He cleared his throat and said, "We already have a Ringmaster. In fact, we have two, and it's not a position we're looking to fill."

She didn't waver. "But Mr. Barnum is incapacitated, is he not? Possibly for good?"

Phillip was immediately defensive. "P.T. Barnum will be back in this ring sooner than anyone expects!"

The woman raised an eyebrow in an expression that was so reminiscent of P.T. Barnum that Phillip shook his head. Then he repeated, "We're not looking for a Ringmaster."

She smiled. "Sometimes, you don't know what you're lookin' for until it shows up on your doorstep."

Phillip shook his head. "What?"

She waved him off. "Nothing. Something my mum used to say, I think to make me feel better about being left on her doorstep."

In spite of himself, Phillip was intrigued. "What was your name again?"

"Emaline," she said proudly. "Emaline Semanovka. You can call me Ema."

"And what makes you think you're qualified to be the Ringmaster of the greatest show in New York City?"

She tipped her head and smiled a wide, disarming smile. "Because...I am."

Phillip laughed again. It felt good to laugh, he decided, even if it was at such lunacy. Perhaps because he was so very tired, or perhaps because he simply needed a mental break from trying to save the circus, he said, "Why don't you audition now? We're rehearsing the opening act. Show us what you've got."

He expected her to reconsider, but Ema nodded without hesitation.

Phillip addressed the performers, "Ladies and gentlemen, we have someone who would like to try on the role of Ringmaster. Since she's come all this way, let's humor her. If you'll take first positions."

Some of them seemed amused, others annoyed. But they complied.

Ema took her position at the side of the ring. She dropped her cloak, revealing black stockings, black shorts no lady would be seen in in pubic, and heeled black shoes. She had obviously done her best to mimic the Ringmaster attire, because she also wore a white, collared leotard overlaid with a fitted vest that was embellished with gold, much like P.T. and Phillip's. She had also managed to find a topcoat in bright red and tailored it to fit her slim physique. She opened the satchel she was carrying, pulled out a black top hat, and slipped it confidently on her head. She walked over to where Phillip had laid down his cane and brazenly seized it.

Looking at the musicians, she aimed the cane at them and said. "Play it."

When they glanced his way, Phillip nodded, if only out of absolute curiosity.

As the musicians began to play, the circus vibrated with the fullness of it. The cast began to sing, and Ema took the stage. Phillip's eyes widened as she hit every one of the Ringmaster cues. She stopped on the right marks, turned with precision, and tipped her hat just so. He would've sworn she was P.T., were it not for the long legs clad only in stockings and the knot of hair at her neck.

And then, in a deep mezzo-alto, she sang the song that defined the circus:

Ladies and gents, this is the moment you've waited for…

She kept going, and even the other performers cut their eyes toward her while they sang, in disbelief at what they were seeing. Phillip noticed that Lettie in particular was wide-eyed, as though she'd finally seen something stranger than herself. For the next five minutes, Ema was a sight to behold. She never faltered, throwing her arms open as though the audience was actually present and cheering her on.

When the song finally ended, she pulled off her hat and stood, waiting. Phillip had no idea what to say.

Lettie spoke up, "How the hell did you learn all that?"

Ema tipped her head. "Like I said. I've been to every show."

Phillip stared at her. The circus was full of incredible performers, each excellent in their own craft. Occasionally, someone had expressed interest in understudying the Ringmaster role, but Phillip believed that it took a special kind of confidence, a willingness to put oneself on the line for the whole show. Whatever happened, the night rose or fell in the Ringmaster's hands. Phillip had never seen anyone but P.T. step into the ring with the charisma and the unabashed confidence that Ema displayed. And there was something in her face, in her eyes, a spark that he'd only ever seen, to this point, in P.T. Barnum.

He thought all of those things to himself. What he said was to Ema was, "You really did learn all of it."

"So, can I help you?"

Phillip chuckled. "No one steps into the ring wearing the jacket unless P.T. Barnum gives his blessing."

Ema stepped out of the ring and crossed to Phillip. She tossed his cane back to him and said, "Then let him watch me."

Phillip grew suddenly angry. "In case you don't remember, he's at home, stuck in a bed, wishing he could be doing what you are making an attempt to do right now."

"Attempt?" Ema raised an eyebrow.

"Exactly," Phillip squared off with her. "You made an attempt."

She stepped in closer. "Don't count me out because I'm a woman, Phillip Carlyle. Give me a chance. Learn to see things from the other side."

Phillip hesitated at her choice of words and then said, "I'm not hiring another Ringmaster. Period."

Ema crossed her arms over her chest.

"But," he conceded, "we can use another dancer if you're interested."

She stared him down. Finally, she stated, "Fine. But you'll come around."

Phillip sighed. "You can work with Lara and Mara this afternoon. Maybe we can put you in by next week."

"Saturday," Emaline stated. "I'll be ready Saturday."

Phillip didn't have the energy to argue.

Much later that night, Charity was in the tent alone once again. It was quiet, the antithesis of what most people looked for when entering the cavernous space. Charity, however, relished it. She was in the lyra again, her body stretched gracefully around the cool metal hoop. She had recently learned how to invert herself into a full split and hold herself there, hands free. She closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of suspension.

Suddenly, a voice said, "Point your toes harder. It'll make your legs looks longer."

Charity's eyes flew open.

"Not that you need longer legs. You've got me beat on that score."

It was Anne. Even upside down, Charity saw her clearly. She was standing just inside the center ring, staring at the lyra. Charity pulled herself upright and dropped from the apparatus.

Coming closer, Anne said, "Don't be mad. Phillip told me you might be here."

Charity huffed, "I knew he could never keep a secret."

Gently, Anne said, "He didn't want to tell me. But all that talk about you having a secret from P.T….it made me worried. Truly worried. He was defending you, that's all."

Charity begrudgingly understood. "It's all right. A part of me really wanted you to know, but a part of me still feels so silly for even attempting something like this. I'm a wife and a mother. Society has almost accepted me as a lady. And ladies don't do this."

Anne scoffed, "I'm a wife. I hope to be a mother. I'd like to think I'm a lady. And yet I could never give this up. Dance is beautiful. Dancing in the air is like nothing else in the world. Maybe people like us can help the world to redefine what it means to be a 'lady.'"

Charity nodded without speaking.

Anne came closer, spun the lyra with her hand, and asked, "Why don't you want P.T. to know? I mean, I get hiding from this critical society, but why him? You know how much he loves this place, and everything about it. Wouldn't he love to know you not only support him, but you want a part of it?"

Charity shook her head. "That's precisely why I haven't told him. I don't want him to think I need a part in it. I'm not even very good. He would feel compelled to put me in because I'm his wife, and I'm not sure I want that."

Anne tipped her head and said, "I would think, if I know P.T. Barnum at all, he would want what makes you happy."

Charity looked away. "Maybe."

"I won't tell you what to do. You have to tell him when you're ready," Anne stated. "But you do look lovely up there."

Charity smiled.

"Come here," Anne instructed. "Let me show you some partner stuff."

Charity happily complied.

The next day, Charity was curled up next to Phinn in their bed again. She'd spent more time in the bed over the past few weeks then she had in all the years she'd been married, but the bed was where Phinn lived now. So the bed was where she spent her time.

Margaret had come again that morning. She was gradually weaning him off the morphine. As expected, it was making for longer, more difficult days. Phinn was awake more often, as opposed to constantly napping from the medication. Charity was glad to have his attention, but his conversations took turns that sometimes scared her. He was starting to talk about his work in the past tense, with a quiet resolve that made her heart hurt. Margaret had succeeded that morning in having him sit upright, on his own, for much of the morning. He was healing, physically, but his spirit seemed to be heading in the opposite direction.

It was nearly noon, now. Charity had a book open in her lap. Her left hand turned the pages while her right drew lazy circles on her husband's thigh. She was reading Caroline's schoolbook that Phinn had referenced when he was still in the hospital ward.

"You know," she mused aloud, "I could say you've borrowed more from this Hamilton character than just his love letter to his wife."

"Meaning?" Phinn asked offhandedly.

"Headstrong. Creative. Determined to a fault. Constantly pushing for his way and wearing people down because he simply refused to be told no. Pioneering new ideas for which he received constant criticism, but forging ahead anyway. Sound familiar?"

"Not in the least." Phinn didn't look up from his newspaper.

Charity laughed. "You're cut from the same mold. He wrote entire new systems of government into existence. You have created an entirely new form of entertainment."

Still not looking up, he argued flatly, "Alexander Hamilton was unfaithful to his wife."

Charity leaned closer to him and said, "I'll gladly accept that difference."

She started to go back to her reading, when Phinn folded his newspaper with a heavy sigh. He stared across the room at the open window pensively.

"What is it, Phinn?" Charity asked softly.

He answered tightly, "It's the words. I can't make sense of them. I feel like a child trying to work through a grammar school book. Something in my head just isn't right."

Charity laid down her book and turned to face her husband. She brushed her hand through his hair and said, "You hit your head very hard. I saw the wound. I can feel the scar. The doctor said you might...struggle."

Phinn worked his jaw, and she could see the tension in him. "I know. But I still can't accept it. I have my memories, which he was worried about. I can see. I can hear. I can speak. But I cannot make sense of words on the page."

"Phinn." She steadied him by looking in his eyes. "It's not even been six weeks. You're a miracle, even now. I will love you if you never read another word."

He didn't argue, but she could tell it wasn't enough.

True to her word, Ema went on with the cast on Saturday night. Phillip had begrudgingly accepted that she knew every bit of the opening number. He wasn't sure why he found her so threatening, and he was afraid to explore the answer. Anne, however, was not.

"There is something about her," she said as she dressed for bed that night.

"What do you mean?" Phillip asked wearily as he buttoned his nightclothes.

"I mean, you can't take your eyes off of her," she explained. "She radiates energy."

"All the dancers have to be that way," Phillip argued. "It's what makes our show great."

Anne dropped her dress to the floor and faced him in just her undergarments. "True. They're all good performers. But when they're in their own element, in their specialty, they shine differently."

"So Ema's a good dancer. We need those."

Anne pulled off her undergarments, and Phillip couldn't help but wonder if she chose to argue with him while undressing because she knew she would always have the upper hand. He still flushed at her curves, at the swell of her breasts and strength in her thighs.

She smirked as he stared openly and said, "She's more than a dancer. And you know it. The place where she shines in the center of the ring."

Phillip made himself look away. "I'm not letting her run the show. Not without P.T.'s blessing."

Anne crossed the room, still naked, kissed him full on the mouth, and asked, "But you'll let him see her? When he can?"

Phillip was powerless to say no.

"I'm going to have Phillip overturn his decision about the aerialists."

Charity froze. It was Monday afternoon, and she was helping Phinn to bathe. He still couldn't lower himself into the tub, so she continued to do what Margaret had shown her in the hospital. After helping him out of his clothes, she would use a basin with warm water and several cloths to bathe him. Although it was still a sign of his infirmity, Charity secretly enjoyed the process. It was intimate in a way they were usually too rushed in life to appreciate. Now, he was forced to be still and she found herself discovering him anew, although she tried to keep it from turning sexual. She didn't want to push him and hinder his recovery.

"You're going to what?" she stopped working the cloth over his chest.

"I'm going to have Phillip put the aerialists back in."

Charity felt a stab of either fear or excitement. She couldn't pinpoint which it was. "And what if he disagrees?"

Phinn sighed. "I have to do something. I can't lie here and let it all go to hell. I have to be useful at...something."

Charity continued running the cloth over his chest. "I've asked you not to talk that way, Phinn. You are more than 'useful' already."

"At what?" he scoffed. "Giving you more chores to do?"

She smiled. "This isn't a chore. This is me getting to touch you, and that is precious to me, considering how close I came to burying you."

He flinched, and she realized once again that he wasn't as resilient as he'd always pretended to be. Phinn understood how very close to death he'd been.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "It's not to be taken lightly."

He shook his head. "It's all right. Some days...I think perhaps I should have…"

Charity stopped him. "Please don't say things like that, Phinn. Please? I know it's hard. I know you want to jump out of this bed. But...please?"

He looked in her eyes, and she could see the turmoil in his.

"Tell me more about the aerialists. How do we convince Phillip?"

He finally smiled just a little. "We don't give him a choice. I'll tell him it's my decision. And I'll accept the consequences. If they shut us down, he can have the show and start up again somewhere with less restrictions."

Charity knew that prudence would dictate that they protect their livelihood and take the safer road, but she didn't marry P.T. Barnum for the safe road. She married him for the adventure.

So she smiled and continued to work the cloth over his body. He closed his eyes, at her mercy. She made note of how the bruises on his torso were now faded to yellow and brown. His right leg was mottled the same colors, with dark, red scars on his thigh and shin. He was thinner, paler, but still the man she loved.

After she felt she'd done a thorough job on most of his body, she gently trailed the cloth over his stomach and down to his groin. He shifted, and she knew her touch affected him. She was glad to know his broken body still responded to her touch, but she also knew he wasn't ready for lovemaking. Yet she certainly wasn't going to allow anyone else to bathe him. So Charity tried to be platonic in her task.

Still, after a minute or two he said, "That's enough."

She understood.

"Chairy?" he said as she put the cloths back in the basin. "Come lay with me."

She chuckled. "It's mid-afternoon. The girls will be knocking soon."

He reached out and took her hand. "Take this off," he indicated her dress, "and lay with me."

"Phinn, I don't think…"

"Just...lay with me. Nothing more. I just want to feel your skin. Please?"

Damn you, Phinn.

She couldn't say no to his eyes. Not when he'd been so despondent lately and was finally showing signs of his old spark. Not when he'd just decided to tell the Board of Trade exactly where they could shove their decision. Because Charity, in spite of her sweet demeanor, had a spark of defiance herself. It was what had made her sneak out of her parents' house to go exploring when they were children. It was what made her run out of their house and not look back when he'd returned as man. She loved Phinn for bringing out the spark in her. So she couldn't say no to him.

Dropping her dress to the floor, she stripped off her undergarments and climbed into the bed. Pulling the quilt over their bodies, she slid next to Phinn, skin on skin. He was still warm, from the water, and she relished it. They hadn't been this way in weeks, and even knowing things could go no further, she felt a rush of pleasure. He sighed, and she sensed his contentment.

Amidst the chaos and uncertainty, for a moment, they were still.