One random thing...I know some of the characters' speech is not exactly the way people of this time period would speak, but I figure it's the same tone as the movie, which used modern language, so I went with it.

Chapter 13

Charity was in the audience that evening when Ema went on. She'd gotten word from Anne that Phillip was sick and Ema would be taking his place. Even having heard about Ema's audition, she wasn't prepared. She looked so much like Phinn in silhouette it was almost frightening. It wasn't just her height and build. There was something in her posture, in the lines of how she moved and the way she felt the music that was simply...Phinn. Phillip was a great performer in his own way. Charity would never put him down. He had a boyish charm that was irresistible and he brought playfulness to the show, but Ema echoed Phinn's showmanship.

Talia, who came from Italy with her husband Jon, was the show's seamstress as well as a master of the tightrope. In just a few hours that afternoon, she had taken Ema's audition costume and turned it into a stunning ensemble. The red Ringmaster coat fit Ema's figure beautifully and her legs looked impossibly long in the black stockings. Talia had added gold embellishments to the coat and and vest to make them match Phinn and Phillip's. Her ensemble was completely that of a Ringmaster, but with more feminine lines. Her hat was just like Phinn's, and she wore it with the same confidence.

It was obvious the audience had never seen a woman in a top hat before. Charity could tell most of them assumed she was Phinn, at first. They were cheers and twitters among the crowd when they thought P.T. Barnum had returned to the ring. However, when Ema sang, the response shifted. Her voice was powerful, but it was not Phinn's baritone. Ema was deep, mezzo-alto, and the opening number rolled off her tongue like expensive whiskey—full and strong. They audience seemed stunned at first, as though Ema was the strangest thing they'd ever seen. Charity found it funny that people who came to see the strangest things on earth, who expected to see albinos and dwarves and dancers who could bend themselves into knots, could be rendered speechless by something as simple as a woman in a top hat. But the site of Ema shocked them. Slowly, as the show went on, Charity watched most of them settle into the idea of being led by a woman. Just like Phinn with that first, uncertain audience, Ema flashed a winning smile and had them in the palm of her hand. However, there were a few who grumbled to the end, and a few who walked out.

Charity couldn't tell if Ema's performance would help or hurt the circus in the long run. It was too early to guess, but she was certain that people would be talking about it the next day. She was sure the press would come and write about it. The old Phinn, the pre-accident Phinn, would have said that any kind of press was good. He was the man, after all, who had turned the derogatory term "circus" into something everyone wanted to attend. All of it made Charity ache, because she missed watching Phinn so much. The whole tent seemed to scream his absence, to her. And seeing Ema in his place, no matter how good she was, hurt Charity's heart.

It didn't help that the past week had been painful for both of the Barnums. Phinn insisted on trying to walk every morning, in spite of his obvious discomfort, even agony. Margaret refused to leave more morphine, hoping lack of medication would persuade him to take it slower, but he still pushed. With determination that bordered on masochism, he forced his body to stand and move. This morning, he had made it to the window. As he stood there, chest heaving from the effort, Charity had tried to encourage him, to praise his progress and ask him to slow down. But he shrugged her off and stared out towards the river.

She wasn't sure how to talk to him. In spite of his progress, he seemed more withdrawn every day. He accepted a kiss every night before they went to sleep, but he hadn't tried to touch her again after they made love the one time. Charity was more hurt than she would admit. She felt as though he'd wanted to prove he could make love, and now that the proving was done, he'd moved on to the thing that mattered more to him—getting back into the circus. The man she was living with now reminded her more of the man who'd left her for Jenny Lind than the husband and father she'd had for the past two years. Phinn had juggled the circus with his family beautifully for that long, and Charity had been content. They had balance, she thought. Now, it seemed his fall had tipped the scales and the circus was pulling him away again.

In addition to trying to slow him down, Charity had also stopped bringing him the papers every morning. Phinn hadn't commented, yet, but she was sure he knew why. She couldn't bear to watch him struggle to read them. He looked miserable and hopeless, and she didn't know how to help. Charity had finally told Dr. Warshaw about her husband's struggle to read in confidence, and he didn't seem surprised.

"These types of things are very common with head injury," he had said.

"Will he be able to read again?"

"I can't answer that. Only time will tell."

She longed for more certainty.

The morning after watching Ema perform, Charity returned to Phinn after walking the girls to school, per usual. He was wrestling with the crutches, and she watched him struggle to the window once again. She said nothing, having learned that arguing was fruitless.

Once he collapsed into an upholstered chair, she said, "Phillip is sick."

Phinn turned, curiosity outweighing pain.

"Anne says he has a bought of something awful. Fever and such."

Phinn nodded. "I hope he's well soon. I haven't seen him lately and we need to discuss business. I can't be out of the loop this long."

Crossing to sit on the edge of the bed, Charity said, "He missed the show last night."

Phinn snapped to attention. "Was it cancelled?"

"No." Charity hesitated. "Ema went on for him."

The words hung in the air like the smell of something rotten.

"What?" Phinn's jaw set in anger.

Charity sighed. She'd hoped for the old Phinn, who she was sure would have loved Ema.

"She's great, Phinn. You would love her. I think you would be proud of her and all that she brings. She can't replace either of you, but she's at home in the part, just like you. She was meant to do it."

"How can you know that?" Phinn snapped.

Charity knew exactly what he was implying. She could hear it underneath his words.

You're just a housewife. What could you know about it?

She was terribly hurt. This person in front of her, scowling and demeaning her, this was not her husband. This was not the man she married.

"Do we have pen and paper? I need to write Phillip." Phinn snapped again.

Charity nearly refused, but she was so hurt and angry that she was afraid to speak. If she spoke, she would either say words she would regret, or burst into tears. So she retrieved pen and paper from the study down the hallway.

Phinn took them and leaned over the table beside the chair where he sat. He stared at the paper for a long time, pen in hand, until his hand began to tremble. Charity watched him, confused. Suddenly, he tossed the pen down and dropped his head into his hands.

Charity understood.

He can't write, either.

The ache in her chest grew more fierce.

Without looking at her, Phinn demanded, "Get Phillip. I need to speak to him. Now."

"Phillip is sick," Charity said softly.

"Then take me to him."

Charity had no idea how to do that. She stared at her husband as he stared out the widow into the gray afternoon. The sky threatened rain, again. The space between them felt cavernous, impassable. He had put up a wall she didn't understand and didn't know how to scale. So she watched him, and silently prayed.

"What were you thinking?"

Phillip stared at P.T., not sure how to answer. He had never seen his partner so upset. P.T. Barnum was the master of laughing through trial, of putting a positive spin on the worst of situations. This sullen man was a stranger to Phillip, so he struggled with his response.

"I was thinking...there was no one else who could go on. Ema was the best choice. I was thinking that you're the man who pulled people out of actual gutters to be in our show, that you've always seen people differently than the rest of the world, so I thought you would see Ema that way."

P.T., who was now able to travel as far as the living room, stared back at Phillip from the plush chair where he sat. He replied, "She's only been in the show a few weeks, Phillip. And you're letting her run it! And she's been going on for a solid week now! How do you know what her intentions are?"

Phillip scoffed. "I think her intentions were to find a warm place to sleep, and she's using what she's good at to make that happen."

"Every time you let her go out there, she has the whole show in her hands. She can make or break us. I can't believe you would treat it so lightly as to hand it to a stranger!" P.T. continued to stare Phillip down. His eyes were stormy and sad.

Phillip couldn't hold his tongue anymore. "You know what I think, P.T.? I think Ema is you. She's you, thirteen years ago—just a street rat with a million dreams. She's rough around the edges, but I think that's because she's lived through a little bit of hell. She deserves a chance, just like you did, becauses she's earned a chance. And because she's good. She's very, very good at what she does. At what we do. She's a Ringmaster, and you need to see her."

"I don't want to see her!" P.T. snapped and looked away.

Phillip felt anger well up in him. "You're not even willing to watch her? Once?"

"No!"

Why?"

"Because I'm don't want to see my replacement, Phillip! She might be the best damn Ringmaster our show has ever seen, but I don't want watch someone stand where I should be standing!"

P.T. looked away again, nearly trembling with emotion, and Phillip understood. This wasn't about Ema being a woman. When Phillip had first stepped into the ring, he and P.T. were partners. Ema, however, was salt in the wound. To P.T., she represented the circus moving on without him. Phillip felt some of his anger dissipate and sadness take its place. He could only imagine what his friend, his partner and mentor, was going through. Phillip's friendship with P.T. was fierce. He loved him like a older brother, like family he didn't have. He loved P.T. Barnum more than he would admit most of the time, and he couldn't stay angry when he knew his partner's behavior was rooted in such anguish.

Carefully, Phillip said, "She can't replace you. She never meant to. She's just another addition to the show."

P.T. wouldn't meet his eyes. "I think you should go, Phillip. Do what you think is best."

Phillip wanted to say more, but he couldn't find the right words. It seemed, there weren't any. So he gave a half-hearted smile and silently left the apartment.

That night, after the show, Charity, Anne, and Ema were sitting in the empty tent eating leftover peanuts and talking. This was becoming something of a ritual, since Charity's secret was now shared by the three of them. She and Anne had grown very close over the past few months and Ema was quickly becoming a good friend, as well. Anne wore a dressing robe over her leotard and Ema had tossed her Ringmaster coat over the bleachers near them. She held her hat in her hands.

"The children of Beelzebub were here again tonight," Ema stated. "One of them was throwing peanuts at the acrobats. And at me."

Anne rolled her eyes. "They come every Wednesday with their nanny. One of them tried to trip one of the elephants, once. I mean, what sort of kid tries to trip an elephant?"

"A stupid one," Ema answered. "Maybe we should let him try again. Might get what's comin' to him."

They all laughed, and Charity added, "I bet Phillip knows who they are, or who their parents are. Not that knowing would do us any good."

Ema shrugged. "Rich. Poor. It doesn't really matter if you trip an elephant and it sits on you."

They laughed again. Charity looked forward to this time, when the hum of the show was still in the air and the three of them sat together, talking like school girls. For a little while, the real world and all its problems faded away. She felt a nagging sense of guilt, because she knew staying to talk after the shows was a way to avoid going home to a sullen and silent husband. Charity hated the state of things between her and Phinn, but she was holding out hope that he was simply walking through another stage of healing. She hoped that once he regained more mobility, his outlook and his mood would improve. She intended to walk through this with him, but there were nights she simply needed some space.

"Phillip says he's comin' back tomorrow night." Ema stated flatly while pulling her hair loose from the tie that held it back, her hat now in her lap.

Charity smiled in encouragement. "I'm sure you'll keep performing. Phillip doesn't need to go back to doing every show, every night. That's how he got sick."

Anne nodded. "He can't do that to himself again."

Ema shook out her hair and it tumbled down her back. She wore it in a knot at the nape of her neck for shows. "I hope he thinks so. This is what I was meant to do. Didn't know it until I walked in here a year ago, but now I'm sure."

"It's a special thing, when you find something you really love," Charity mused.

"Or someone," Anne added.

"Easier for you than for me," Ema countered.

"There wasn't much about marrying Phillip Carlyle that was easy," Anne returned.

"You're right. Sorry for making light of that," Ema apologized. "Sometimes it's easy to get caught up in my own loneliness."

With Ema's permission, Charity had told Anne about Ema's attraction to women.

"Marriage doesn't always guarantee you won't be lonely." Charity made the statement without thinking.

There was a tense silence before Anne offered, "He'll come through it Charity. I'm sure of it."

Charity wanted to believe her. Trying to stay in the bubble of positivity, she changed the subject. "Ema...how's the new room working out?"

She rolled her eyes. "It's lovely, rooming with someone who I fear might kill me in my sleep."

Anne laughed. "Lettie wouldn't hurt a fly."

"Ok," Ema huffed. "Maybe she won't kill me. But she may drive me insane. She starts singing at seven in the morning. In the morning!"

"Roommates are difficult," Anne commiserated. "I had a few in addition to my brother over the years."

"And husbands aren't necessarily easier," Charity added with a smile.

"Truth," Anne agreed. "And mine is waiting for me."

She stood up and stretched her arms over her head. With a nod and sad smile, she headed for the dressing area to change and head home.

Charity knew she was stalling as she said to Ema, "Just you and me, huh?"

Ema nodded. "I suppose neither one of us wants to go home?"

Charity couldn't argue.

Sliding closer to Charity on the bench seats, Ema said, "I've admired P.T. Barnum since the moment I walked into this tent a year ago. All I wanted since that night was to perform here." She paused. "I was here the night he fell. I know it doesn't compare to you, but...that was the most terrifying thing that's ever happened to me. And I've lived through some shit. This world wouldn't be the same without P.T. in it. I think, if we can help him know that, then he'll find his way back."

Charity was speechless. Ema was funny and tough as nails, but this was the first time she'd shown such genuine emotion. Ema held Charity's gaze with her wide, blue eyes and Charity felt a deeper, more real connection.

Just as quickly, Ema stood and said, "I'm going to go face Lettie. Hopefully, I didn't leave makeup everywhere. She hates that. Along with everything else I do."

"Good luck," Charity offered softly.

Ema walked away, and she was alone.

The next morning, the twenty-sixth of October, dawned cold and clear. In spite of the bright sun, the scent in the air hinted at the first snowfall of the season. Phillip arrived at the circus tent early, intending to get through some paperwork in the office. As he walked the gravel road that led from the East Village toward the river, where the circus tent stood, he remembered how hot it was the night he had carried P.T. out of the tent. He remembered the sweat on his brow as he'd helped Charity into the carriage. He shook his head, because, on one hand, it didn't feel as though enough time had passed since P.T.'s fall for it to be nearly winter. On the other, it felt as though a lifetime had passed.

As Phillip grew closer, he realized someone was sitting outside the tent on one of the benches usually reserved for patrons. A few steps closer, and he recognized Peter Murray. He heaved a sigh, not ready for this confrontation. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready. Phillip despised confrontation. P.T. had a way of disarming his opponents with charm, whereas Phillip just felt flustered and generally revealed too much.

When he was within earshot, Peter stood and said, "Phillip Carlyle."

"Peter." Phillip tipped his head in greeting.

"It's Mr. Murray."

Phillip looked him over. Peter Murray was the definition of average. He stood just slightly taller than Phillip, with the build of someone who sat behind a desk all day—round in the middle and gangly everywhere else. His hair and his clothes were all various shades of dull brown. His glasses aged him by ten years. He might've been attractive, once, but his features had grown pinched from scowling. He wore a wedding band, and Phillip wondered if he was as negative at home as he was in his work. He imagined the man at home, constantly repeating household rules to Mrs. Murray, who would be inevitably exhausted from such minutiae.

"Ok then, Mr. Murray," Phillip started again. "What brings you here?"

"I think you know," Peter stated.

"I don't think I do." Phillip wasn't going to make this easy.

Peter Murray stepped closer. "Your aerialists are performing again. From what I've been told, they've been going on for over a month, now."

"I was starting to wonder what was taking you so long." Phillip couldn't help himself. Anger and frustration brought out the snark in him. "We expected you weeks ago."

Peter pressed his lips together in disapproval. "The Board of Trade has other matters to investigate, besides your circus."

Phillip crossed his arms over his chest. "Then why not focus on those? There's nothing here that's hurting anyone or causing any trouble."

"You violated a direct order from the Board."

Phillip nodded. "Yes. We chose to ignore the orders you gave us, because there is no law that states we cannot have aerialists in our show. Your job is to enforce the laws that exist, not make new ones as you like. If you think it's so important that we change our show, you'll need to file for an injunction."

Peter Murray was quiet for a moment. "You're willing to take this to court?"

Phillip swallowed hard. "Yes, we are."

"Very well." Peter picked up his briefcase from where it sat by the tent and walked away without another word.

Phillip watched him until he was a tiny figure on the long road leading back into the city.

That same morning, Charity answered a knock on her front door just after she'd taken the girls to school. She opened the door to find Anne, who she wasn't expecting.

"Morning. Is everything all right?" she asked.

Anne nodded. "Yes. Phillip headed to work early. I wanted to bring these by. I'd nearly forgotten, with everything going on."

Over her arm, she had Phinn's Ringmaster coat and a satchel with his clothes and boots from the night of the accident. In the other, his top hat. Charity vaguely remembered Phillip taking the clothes at some point when Phinn was in the hospital, offering to make sure they were all cleaned. The hat, she assumed, had been at the circus.

"Thanks," Charity smiled. "I know Phinn will be glad to know they're safe until he can return."

Anne smiled. "Let him know that Phillip, and Ema, are ready to have him back the minute he's ready."

"Absolutely," Charity agreed. "Do you want to come in?"

"I can't," Anne returned. "I have an appointment with the doctor."

Charity tipped her head in curiosity.

Anne took a deep breath. "You know...Phillip and I would love to have a baby. I want to make sure everything is...normal."

Charity's heart went out to her friend. "Of course. I'm sure everything is fine. Childbearing can be such a fickle thing."

"I know," Anne agreed, "but you had no trouble…"

"True. But after Helen...it's been twelve years and no more babies. Some of it is just a mystery."

"I guess. But I'm hoping to solve some of the mystery," Anne said.

"I hope you do." Charity stepped in and wrapped Anne in a hug.

"Thanks." Anne pulled away. "I better run." She handed the coat, satchel, and hat to Charity, who gave her an encouraging smile.

Charity shut the door and stood there for a long time staring at the items in her hands. There were so many memories wrapped up in these clothes. She remembered Phinn with this hat in his hands as he promised her father he would take care of her. He'd had it meticulously cleaned and repaired when he opened the museum that would become the circus, determined to make a good impression. She remembered when he'd gone to the dressmaker and described exactly the coat he'd envisioned wearing when he was a boy. Charity would never forget the day he'd first put it on, the way he'd come alive in front of the crowd. Now, she wistfully traced the gold embroidery on the sleeve.

Taking a breath, she headed back to the master bedroom. Inside, Phinn was sitting in the chair by the window, where he often was as of late. He turned when she came in.

Trying to smile, Charity said, "Anne brought these by. She had them cleaned for you. Do you want me to hang them in the wardrobe."

Phinn's face registered what she was carrying, but she couldn't exactly read his reaction. He shook his head. "Not yet. Let me see them. I should make sure everything is right, for when I need them again."

Charity crossed the room and placed the hat and the coat on the table in front of him. She set the satchel on the floor at his feet. Taking a chance on his good mood, she kissed him lightly on the forehead and said, "I thought I'd make some tea. Should I bring you some?"

"Sure." He gave her a tiny smile.

Grateful that he seemed in better spirits, she headed toward the kitchen.

When she returned, two cups of tea in her hands, Phinn was still sitting in the chair by the window. In his arms, he held his red Ringmaster coat. The black top hat sat on the table in front of him. She started to enter the room, but something stopped her in the doorway. Charity's breath hitched. She felt like someone had stabbed her through the heart.

Phinn was crying. The tears ran down his cheeks and he furiously wiped them away with one hand. The other clutched the coat that meant so much to him. Charity could see the raw struggle. She could almost feel how badly he hurt, and she wanted to run to him. She wanted to cross the space and wrap him in her arms. She wanted to tell him how beautiful and perfect he was, no matter his physical abilities. She wanted the power to heal his broken body and put him back in the ring. She wanted to wipe away the tears. But the last few weeks had driven a wedge between them, a crevasse she was afraid to cross.

So she stood in the doorway and watched, her heart breaking for him, as he cried.