Sorry this took me a bit as well. I was out of town on a work trip. I finished my show, so no more dancing until rehearsals start again in August. ;-)

Chapter 11

"Pull yourself up. Now cross your legs around the rope and pull yourself up again."

Anne was instructing Charity, who hung upside down from the lyra. It was Monday, one week later. Now that Anne knew her secret, Charity was more than willing to accept help. She found that she and the younger woman were growing closer simply by having a shared interest. Charity had always liked Anne, but the age difference of fifteen years had kept them from really bonding until now. It was good, Charity felt, for them to finally connect, considering how much their husbands relied on one another.

"When I first saw you do this, it looked so easy," Charity said while hoisting herself up the strap that hung the lyra.

"Not so easy, is it?" Anne replied with a smile.

Charity shook her head.

"It's been over an hour. You should come down." Anne glanced at the old pocket watch she'd swiped from Phillip when his father gifted him a new one for his birthday.

Charity untangled herself and dropped gracefully to the sawdust-covered floor.

Leaning back into the hoop herself for a moment, Anne asked, "Don't you worry that P.T. is going to finally question where you are at night?"

Charity smiled wistfully. "One of the most wonderful, most dangerous things about Phinn is that he trusts me unconditionally. Although lately...he's so sound asleep he doesn't notice I'm gone."

Anne looked away, pensive. "I know injuries like his...they take time. But do you think he's still getting better?"

Charity sat down on the curved wooden beam that formed one of the rings on the circus floor. She picked up one of her shoes, sensible black boots, and said, "I refuse to believe anything else."

"How long has it been now?"

Charity laced her shoes. "Six weeks."

"Looking at Phillip, I believe it." Anne sighed.

Charity stood, then pulled on and fastened the long coat she wore to hide her leotard when she was outside the circus tent. "I really appreciate how he's taken on all these shows. I know it's not easy."

Anne pulled the lyra to the side and tied it off using thick ropes. She called across the space, "I alternate between compassion for how hard he's working to save the circus and frustration because he's taken away the one thing I love almost as much as him."

"He thinks he's doing the right thing," Charity offered.

"I know." Anne pulled on a coat as well.

It was mid-September now, and the nights were cool. She looked away for a moment, and Charity could tell she was struggling with something.

Anne met her eyes again and said, "Have you met Ema? The new girl?"

"The dancer? The tall one with dark hair? Yes," Charity answered.

Anne hesitated. "She auditioned to be Ringmaster."

Charity stared at Anne, not sure she'd heard her correctly. "What?"

"When she first came in, she told Phillip she wanted to be Ringmaster. And I have to say, she was pretty damn good."

Charity smiled. "Something about that makes me very happy."

Anne laughed. "I know. But Phillip wasn't thrilled. Neither were a lot of the others. It's funny how we work in a place that intentionally throws off social conventions, but we are still compelled to hold to certain social conventions."

Charity thought it over. "It may not just be social convention. It may be more about their loyalty to Phinn and Phillip."

"True," Anne conceded. "Very true."

They started toward the exit.

"Ema wants Phillip to let P.T. watch her. As Ringmaster," Anne added softly.

Charity thought it over. "Two months ago, I would've asked him myself. But now...I think he's already struggling with not being able to perform. He's afraid he's done. For good. So I don't know what he would say…"

Anne glanced over with compassion. "I figured. But maybe when he's back on his feet...because she really is good."

Charity laughed softly. "I bet she is. I really bet she is..."

The next afternoon, Phillip sat in the master bedroom in the Barnum's apartment. This place, unlike their oversized mansion in the woods, overlooked the bustling city. It wasn't as far uptown as the Carlyle family home, but it was only about a fifteen minute walk to the newly established park in the center of city. Phillip was glad the Barnum's had chosen to live here. It suited them, he felt, far better than the stuffy houses by the shore.

"Phillip." P.T. addressed him from the bed, as had become standard.

Still, Phillip wasn't used to it. When the two men typically met to discuss circus business, they either holed themselves up in the office backstage or went to the bar. Either way, P.T. usually alternated between stillness, deep in focus, or buzzing about the space. To see him reclined in the bed would never be normal.

"Yes?" Phillip returned.

P.T. stared him down intently. "I want you to put the aerialists back in the show."

Phillip stared back. The clocked over the fireplace ticked. Neither man moved.

"What?" Phillip finally asked, albeit rhetorically. He'd heard every word.

"Put the aerialists back in the show, Phillip. We both know how lacking it is without them. In the beginning, they were a surprise. I imagined my show to be more about the unusual, the macabre. But Anne and W.D. stole the crowd with their first show. Now, we just can't do it without them. All of them."

"And what about Peter Murray and the Board of Trade?" Phillip asked curtly.

P.T. leveled his eyes at Phillip. His expression was intense, like the night they'd first become partners. "Peter Murray does not make decisions for the Board. His only job is to investigate. If they want to force us to change our show, they need to file an injunction and go before a judge."

Phillip wondered if Anne and Charity had been pushing their ideas onto P.T.

"When someone tries to run you over, Phillip, it's best not to lie down in the street for them. Make it harder. Fight."

Phillip cleared his throat. "I assume Anne and Charity have been making their case for all this?"

"Actually, no," P.T. stated. "Charity answered a few questions, but this is what I think is best."

"And what about what I think is best?"

"Phillip, can you really tell me you think the circus is just as good the way it is now? Do you sincerely believe all the aerialists should be grounded and, eventually, out of their jobs?"

It suddenly occurred to Phillip what the finances of it all meant. They couldn't keep paying the salaries of performers who don't perform. They would have to fill the show with other acts. He thought about Lara and Mara and how they were just learning trapeze. He thought about Amani and Jacinta, who specialized in Spanish web, or rope. He thought about Constance, who was from Brazil like the twins and who could hang by her teeth. He thought about Talia and Jon, tightrope walkers from Italy. Finally, he thought about Anne and even Charity. The show would eventually lose most of them if things continued they way they were heading.

He said weakly, "I just don't want to lose everything we've worked for."

With a tilt of his head, PT. returned, "We've lost everything before, and look at us now."

"And the reason you could start over was because of me." Phillip couldn't help making the point that his frugality had saved them.

P.T. was silent for a moment, his piercing hazel eyes held Phillip's. His strong jaw was covered in rough stubble, but it was set. His hair, full of waves and even curls, wasn't neatly combed. However his presence still seemed to fill the room. "Your money saved us. I'll admit, you're a better financier than I ever was. But I know what the people want. I can sense it, and I think they'll support us in this."

Phillip scoffed. "The people don't make decisions. The Board of Trade does."

"No," P.T. argued, "the Board of Trade investigates public places and makes recommendations that must be upheld by a judge. They make suggestions about building codes and occupancy laws. But they can't technically force us to do anything on their own."

Phillip felt himself give in before he said a word. He was more practical, more responsible than P.T., but he loved the circus with his whole heart. And loved Anne. God, he loved her. So if it was time to fight for what she loved, he would do it.

"Allright." Phillip nodded. "The aerialists go back in tomorrow."

P.T. nodded as well, then asked, "Where's a couple of shot glasses when you need them?"

Surprised, Phillip asked, "Should you be…?"

"Life's too short for 'should you be.' Go get the scotch," P.T. ordered with a smirk.

Phillip complied.

Later that night, Phillip sat at the dinner table in his own apartment. He and Anne lived just north of the Barnum's. Their apartment was smaller, but he could catch a sliver of the park out the northwest window in their dining room on clear days. Now, the sun was setting behind the distant trees.

Anne came through the door a few minutes later, her arms laden with garment bags. "One person needs something mended, everyone needs something mended," she quipped. Then she dropped everything in the small foyer.

Phillip stood and greeted her with a kiss and a smile. "Why didn't you take it straight to the circus? Or have it delivered."

She shrugged. "I was raised to carry my own clothes. Didn't think of it until I was halfway up the stairs."

Phillip chuckled. Anne was forever practical. And strong. As much as he'd wished she'd gotten help with the clothes, he knew her arms could carry more than a few bags of costumes.

"I have news," he stated as she stripped off her coat.

"Can it wait until dinner? I'm starving."

Phillip shook his head. "No. But we can go to Russo's after I tell you."

Russo's was Anne's favorite Italian restaurant, on the corner about four blocks away. "Are we celebrating something?"

Phillip shrugged. "You might be."

Anne was suddenly curious.

He took a deep breath. "P.T. wants the aerialists back in the show...and I agreed. You go back in tomorrow night."

Anne's face registered surprised and then delight. She squealed and wrapped Phillip in a tight embrace. "I love you, Phillip Carlyle. For always taking a chance on me."

Into her thick hair, he whispered, "I think it's mostly you continuing to take a chance on me."

She pulled back and said, "We'll need a rehearsal in the morning. For everyone."

"I know," Phillip said heavily. He didn't share her enthusiasm.

"What's wrong now?" Anne put her arms loosely around his neck. "You have to stop worrying so much. We take risks. It's what we do."

Phillip looked away for a moment. "It's not just the circus, Anne. I worry about you. My wife."

She forced him to meet her eyes. "I've done this all my life, Phillip. I know what I'm doing."

"I know….but….what if…"

There was silence.

"What?" Anne demanded.

"What if...you're pregnant? What if you should fall pregnant, and then with all the climbing and such…"

Anne stepped back. "First of all, I hate that phrase, 'Fall pregnant.' It sounds like I stumbled into a trap, unaware. I know what causes pregnancy. Second, Dr. Warshaw told me I could keep performing. I will know if I'm pregnant long before it would be dangerous."

Phillip didn't look convinced.

"He's a good doctor, Phillip. He saved P.T.'s life when everyone has said he should be dead."

Phillip sighed. "I know. But this you."

Anne cocked her head. "I know you love P.T. every bit as much as me. It's not a secret, Phillip."

Phillip hated that she was right, but he was grateful she understood. He returned, "I don't want P.T. Barnum to bear my child, though. I draw the line there."

Anne laughed, throwing her head back in a way that made her look exquisite. So he kissed her neck, and then worked his way up to her lips.

When he finally pulled back, Anne still clung to him, and he could tell something was troubling her. He didn't push, though.

Eventually, she said, "It's been over a year, Phillip. We've been married fifteen months. Charity was pregnant within a month of her marriage. And then again three months after Caroline was born."

Phillip felt a weight in his gut. He had some of the same worries, but he hadn't wanted to put them on Anne.

Instead, he said, "We're not them, Anne. We spend most of our lives with them, but we are our own family. And we'll make ours in our own way."

Anne wrapped him a tight embrace, and he held her.

"Hey."

Charity turned, not used to being addressed as "Hey."

A tall woman with dark, curly hair was staring at her. Charity was still sitting on one of the bleacher seats in the circus tent. It was at least an hour past curtain call, but Caroline and Helen were playing "circus" in the empty rings. They were growing up so fast, Charity hated to stifle them when the urge to play came.

"Are you comin' to the bar with the rest of us?"

Charity recognized the woman now. It was Ema in her street clothes. And for Ema, the word "street" was especially appropriate. She wore trousers and a ladies blouse that was tied in the back, rather than neatly tucked. Her feet were shod in boots and she kept the trousers up with a pair of boys' suspenders. Her hair was tied back haphazardly and curls escaped everywhere. Her makeup was perfect, however. She'd removed the paint and glitter from the show, but her cheeks and eyes stood out beautifully. Her makeup reminded Charity more of art than vanity. She'd never seen Ema this close before, but her eyes were everything Anne had said they were—deepest blue, like an expensive doll rather than a woman.

"Are ya?"

Charity realized she hadn't answered. She shook her head. "No. I have to get the girls home." It was Thursday, and Caroline and Helen had school the next morning.

Ema glanced at them. "Ah yes. Caroline the dancer and Helen the artist. Who would expect different of Barnum kids."

Charity looked at Ema, surprised. "How do you know what they like to do?"

Ema smiled. I've been watchin' the show for over a year. And I read the gossip papers. Plus, people talk backstage. Don't worry, though. It's good things they're saying."

Charity could tell from the way she spoke that Ema had been raised lower class, probably on the Lower East Side, based on her name. It sounded Russian or Slavic. She didn't look Slavic, though.

Charity voiced her thoughts, "Where do you come from, Ema?"

Ema sat down on the bleachers as well. "Don't really know. My parents are Ukrainian, but I was left on their doorstep. Just a note that said my mother would lose her job if she kept me. Said my father never knew about me. So it's all pretty well a dead end on that score."

Charity could hear the hint of an accent as well. Perhaps Scottish. It was faint, but she knew that the working class neighborhoods were a melting pot of immigrants. "And what made you want to join the circus?"

Ema shrugged. "Same as the rest of 'em, I guess. A place to belong. Money in my pocket and food in my stomach. A home where no one spits on me and calls me 'bastard.'"

The last bit caught Charity off-guard. "Your parents called you that?"

Ema shook her head. "No. Place where I lived last. Dressmaker shop and boarding house. They knew me too well. Saved up enough money to leave, though."

Charity spontaneously asked, "How old are you?"

Ema smiled. "Twenty-three."

"I got married at twenty-two," Charity mused.

"I'm not much for marriage." Ema looked away.

"Well, you're young," Charity went on. "Relatively, anyway. And no one in the circus seems to do things the traditional way."

Ema met her eyes again. "Maybe. But I don't think anyone here is really...my type."

Charity smiled. "Anyone working here won't be shocked by much. They march to their own drums, here."

Ema tipped her head. "Still, I doubt it."

"Well, we've certainly got all types."

Ema looked thoughtful for a moment. Then she looked directly into Charity's eyes and stated very plainly, "You're my type."

Charity was confused. She stared at Ema, entirely unsure what she meant for some time. Then, it clicked. And she had no idea what to say in return.

Ema smirked. "Don't worry. I'm not after ya'. I know you're married. And you're a little spindly for me. But...why keep secrets here, of all places?"

Charity swallowed. Suddenly, her own secret felt much, much less interesting. And far less potentially damaging. But she reminded herself that this is what she'd signed up for. All types. All peoples. The outcasts. The strange. A "celebration of humanity." The runaways running the night. So she smiled at Ema in silent acceptance.

Silent solidarity.

Charity would always remember the day Phinn first tried to stand. It was Sunday, the seventh of October, and the rain outside hit the glass in heavy torrents. The weather had turned cold, forcing Margaret and Dr. Warshaw to shake out umbrellas and heavy overcoats before heading back to the master bedroom that morning. Charity had lit all the lamps to compensate for the gray outside.

Dr. Warshaw wrapped Phinn's torso tightly in cloths for support, as Charity had been doing every day. Margaret gave him just enough morphine to make it bearable. He usually only took the shots at night, now. Then, with the help of all three people, Phinn managed to sit up and move to the edge of the bed.

He sat there, breathing heavily, and said, "I'm dizzy."

"That's normal," the doctor explained. "You haven't used these limbs in nine weeks. That's why we need to get them moving."

Charity was so grateful for the doctor, who was smarter than any physician she'd ever encountered. To assist, Margaret moved to Phinn's right side and the doctor stayed at his left. Charity stood in front of her husband.

"Focus on your wife, Mr. Barnum," the doctor instructed. "Focus on her face and use Margaret and myself to stand."

Phinn nodded. Charity held his eyes with hers. She could see the determination. And the fear.

Since he wore just a nightshirt, she could see the strain in his arms as he hoisted himself up off the bed. He was thinner, but Phinn would never be a slight man. He grimaced, grit his teeth, and eventually grunted as Margaret and the doctor took his weight. Faster than Charity expected, he was standing. For the first time in weeks, she looked up at him. Charity wasn't a short woman, but her husband still had about nine inches on her height. She looked up at him and smiled broadly.

Phinn opened his eyes, but he didn't smile.

"You did it," she said softly.

Phinn nodded. Grimacing again, he took a step forward. And then another.

The doctor intervened. "I think that's enough. You can hold your weight. That's all we needed to know."

They helped him step back and slowly sit down on the bed again.

Phinn rubbed his face. "I need to do so much more than 'hold my weight.'"

Charity stepped in toward him and said, "Not today, you don't. That was brilliant! For today."

Phinn sighed heavily.

Dr. Warshaw added, "You've healed well. I think things are as set as we could hope for. Now, you have to rebuild your strength. Strong muscles will help the bones continue to strengthen. So now it's time to move every day. Even through the pain."

The doctor seemed satisfied. He left Margaret with some more supplies and instructions. Then he smiled and departed. Margaret checked her patient over, gave Charity the evening syringes of morphine, and then left as well.

Carefully, Charity helped her husband lean back against the pillows. It was very, very quiet, except for the sound of the pelting rain on the window glass.

"I suppose this is our life, now. This bed. This room. But then, maybe it's good for a man to know how and where he's going to leave this world?"

Charity pulled over a chair, sat, and took his hand. She knew her husband was dramatic. Everything with Phinn had always been extreme. Highest highs and lowest lows. She tried to be his counterweight, his temperance, pulling him back when he swung too far either direction. Lately, however, it was becoming harder and harder.

"You have to give it time, Phinn. Time. Look how far you've come."

"I can't read," he snapped.

"And I told you to tell the doctor."

"Why? He's made it clear there's nothing else he can do."

"Phinn, he should know. We should be honest with him."

Phinn was pensive and silent.

"I'm going to check on the girls," Charity stated. She pulled her hand from his and headed toward the kitchen.

Later that night, they lay in bed, their bodies perfectly fitted together. Phinn was finally able to lie on his side for short periods of time, and they'd removed most of their clothes again. Charity relished the feeling of his warmth from her shoulders to her toes.

Phinn slid his arms around her and, to her surprise, gently kissed down her neck. He spent the next few minutes nuzzling her as such. Then he murmured in her ear, "Charity..."

She turned to face him and, before she could speak, he kissed her. He kissed her like a dying man who could only be saved by the power of her lips. Charity returned the kiss, hungrily, but pushed him back when he ran his hand up her nightshirt to her breast.

"Phinn," she said, "you're not ready. You've only just gotten out of the bed today."

"I am," he argued throatily before working his mouth down her neck again.

She felt, logically, like she should say no, that he needed more time, but she couldn't make the argument. She knew he was probably pushing himself out of sheer desperation not to be an invalid any longer, and that she should stop him. But Phinn stole the words from her lips with another kiss. Instead, she let him run his hands up her nightshirt. She let his hands find her breasts and she realized how starved they both were for physical intimacy. She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his back, feeling the transition of his smooth skin to the rough bandages. He shifted some of his weight onto her, and she let her hands trail down across his bare buttocks. Through her thin undergarments, she could feel his arousal. She knew he was in pain, but it must be bearable if he could work himself into such a state. Or he simply wanted her that desperately.

She let herself get lost in his kisses for the next few minutes, allowing her body to ache and respond, to want him again without hesitation. She touched him, without fear, for the first time in weeks. Then she raised her hands to his face and said, "This is enough, Phinn. It's enough."

"No, it isn't," he said, his voice gruff with desire.

He shifted his body again and winced in pain. Charity looked up into his eyes, and she could see he was struggling to hold himself this way in spite of his determination. So she gently rolled him onto his back. She slid out of the bed and crossed the room to latch their bedroom door. As she walked back toward the bed, she pulled her nightshirt over her head and tossed it aside. His eyes were wide and glossy with undisguised desire for her.

Climbing back into the bed, she carefully leaned down and kissed Phinn's chest, working her way from the bones of his clavicle, down the midline, and to his naval. Charity took this opportunity to relearn every inch of him, her mouth finding all the dips and rises. Because he was so limited in his movement, he was at her mercy. She reacquainted herself with the sinewy strength in his arms and with the soft hair that she could trace from his chest, down his stomach, and beyond. He was so familiar, and yet so new again in the moment. In the soft light, Charity took the hard length of him in her mouth and he nearly came undone, it had been so long.

"Charity…" he could barely speak.

When she pulled back, she said, "I won't hurt you, Phinn. If you're in pain, we will stop."

He reached out and pulled her up to him, chest to chest, and kissed her senseless again.

Shedding her undergarments, Charity carefully straddled his hips. If she could capture the look of absolute adoration and unbridled want on his face, she would. Phinn could look at her and absolutely melt her. Every woman, she felt, should have a man look at her this way.

Or a woman.

Charity suddenly, and inexplicably, remembered Ema. She blushed, because she hadn't been taught to think of such things. But, by now, she'd tossed out most of what she'd been taught about sexuality.

Always let your husband lead in the bedroom. It's shameful and un-Christian not to lie beneath him, submissive.

Her mother's words seemed especially far away and ludicrous tonight. Her and Phinn had found their own way over the years, giving and taking, submitting and leading. They led unconventional lives, so why should their lovemaking be any different?

With Phinn still looking up at her and before they could second-guess it, Charity took him inside of her body. He gasped, and she leaned over so they were nearly face to face.

"I love you, Circus King," she whispered.

"And I love you, Charity Barnum."

Then she moved against him, using her arms to keep her weight off of him as best she could. She tried to be gentle, but his obvious pleasure spurred her on. It didn't last long, given her concern for his pain and how long it had been. But she found something very sacred in the moment—something that made her feel raw and deep and alive, as though the rhythm of their bodies was reminding her that life had won. It was imperfect and messy and maybe never the same again, but life had won.

Phinn fell hard, his hands clutching her hips in both pleasure and pain. Charity went with him, biting her lip to hold back the primal scream in her chest that wanted to cry out that that they were both alive.

Breathing heavily, she pulled back and shifted her weight off of him as soon as she felt steady. Phinn lay next to her, his eyes closed, his chest heaving.

After a minute, she asked, "Phinn? Are you okay?"

He nodded, but kept his eyes closed.

"Are you in pain?"

He nodded again, and she could see the struggle.

She stroked his chest, finding a sheen of perspiration in spite of the cool room. "Phinn?" she asked again.

"I"m okay, Chairy. I'll be okay. That was worth all the pain the world can throw at me."

She relaxed a little. "Do you want the morphine?"

"In a minute. Let's stay like this for a minute."

Charity slid closer and continued to stroke his chest. She pulled the quilt over their legs. Deep inside, she felt a sense of relief. His body certainly worked, at least in this way. She let the post-coital bliss numb her worries about whether he would walk unassisted. Or run. Or dance. Or read. She let go of her worries about the circus and the risks they were taking. She let herself be just Charity, and him be just Phinn.

And for the first time in weeks, he fell asleep without the aid of morphine.