Things Half in Shadow

by Alan Finn

  Roaming among them were guests who required no costume to appear strange or fantastical. I saw one woman so tall that I at first thought she was walking on stilts. It wasn’t until she passed right by me that I realized she truly was of such great height. In stark counterpoint, following her was a man shorter than Thomas. He was so small that the top of his hat barely reached my waist. Behind them was a rather sturdy woman in a bejeweled gown. She held a feathered mask to her face, and while it did a suitable job of covering her eyes and forehead, it did nothing to disguise the well-tended beard that dripped from her chin. And I can’t forget to mention the twins who were joined at the hip. Dark skinned and exotic, they were attached at the rump, facing away from each other. They wore matching yellow gowns of crinoline and lace, the skirt wide enough to accommodate them both. Each had a different dance partner, the men circling them as the twins rotated in place.

  “I told you it would be spectacular,” Lucy said.

  “It is,” I replied. “But for what reason is Mr. Barnum throwing this party?”

  Lucy shrugged. “He’s P. T. Barnum. I doubt he needs a reason to do anything.”

  Speaking of our host, he was naturally the center of attention, located on a platform that rose waist high above the far end of the dance floor. On top of the platform was a high-backed throne in which Barnum himself sat, hands moving along to the music. The greatest showman of our time looked far more at home there than he had at the Pastor residence. During the séance, he was a mere mortal—humble, lumpy, and quiet. But on that throne, visible to everyone in the ballroom, he was like a god.

  Phineas Taylor Barnum, master of the spectacular and peddler of entertainment to the common man, lived an endless cycle of success and disgrace and success again. At the moment, though, he was in a slump and, according to recent reports, nearly broke again. His museums, though popular, had been too expensive to rebuild after being burned to the ground. His tours with Jenny Lind and Tom Thumb were distant memories. And while he had begun to take an interest in politics, social causes, and, ironically, the debunking of Spiritualism, I suspected this ball was his way of proving he could still put on a good show. In my opinion, he had succeeded admirably . . . so much so that the activity on the dance floor made it hard to reach him.

  “How do we get to him?” I asked Lucy.

  “Waltz, of course.”

  She stepped onto the crowded dance floor, forcing several couples to swirl around her or stop altogether. Lucy paid them no mind as she held out a hand. I paused on the edge of the dance floor, strangely and suddenly nervous.

  Part of my hesitation was because I assumed that my dancing skills were somewhat lacking. But most of it stemmed from the way Lucy looked. Resplendent in her emerald gown, head tilted expectantly, she almost seemed like a complete stranger, one of those exotic and beautiful women who make grown men feel like knock-kneed youths.

  I was completely out of my depth.

  “Edward,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me, “I’m beginning to feel like a fool out here all by myself.”

  I sighed, stepped onto the dance floor, and took her warm hand into my own.

  We began to dance, trying to pick up midwaltz. Lucy didn’t miss a step. I, however, was rusty, and it took me a moment or two to ease into things. I stepped on Lucy’s toes twice and, at one point, swatted her in the head with the nose of my mask.

  “Relax,” Lucy whispered. “You’re too tense.”

  I truly was, moving stiff limbed around the floor. In the past year, I had never danced with someone other than Violet, and the foreignness of the situation left me feeling awkward and unmoored. Dancing with Lucy was different. She moved with effortless grace. Plus, she wasn’t afraid to take the lead when necessary.

  “You’re too far away,” she said after bearing another few moments of my fumbling. “Come closer.”

  She pulled me against her, tightening my left hand around her own. She then maneuvered my right hand until it was at the correct spot on her waist. We were so close that I could smell her perfume—a light lavender scent that filled my nose and allowed me to relax.

  “That’s much better,” she said. “Now let’s try moving to the music.”

  Lucy tugged me a bit, speeding up my steps until they were moving in time with the waltz. Soon we were gliding over the floor as if we danced together all the time.

  “Fancy that,” she remarked, eyebrows raised. “You’re a better dancer than I thought you’d be.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Although I owe a great debt to my partner.”

  “When we first met, did you ever think we’d end up dancing together at a masked ball?”

  “Not for a moment,” I replied. “Our first meeting wasn’t exactly . . . friendly.”

  “It most definitely was not,” Lucy said, chuckling slightly at the memory. “Lord, did I hate you.”

  “The feeling was mutual.”

  “And what do you think of me now, Edward?”

  I paused a moment, trying to collect my thoughts into a suitable answer. It was difficult, what with Lucy looking so beautiful and the ball being so fantastical. It all left me feeling mildly intoxicated. Still, I was of sound enough mind to say, “That you’re delightful company when you want to be.”

  “I can say the same about you,” Lucy replied. “Miss Willoughby is a very lucky girl.”

  I frowned at the mention of Violet. Her name brought with it a strong sense of guilt. I hadn’t thought of her at all during my time at Mr. Barnum’s ball, even though I knew she would have been thrilled to attend. So the guilt washed over me as I imagined Violet gasping with delight as she took in the costumes, the dancers, the food. It felt wrong to be there without her. Dancing with another woman, no less.

  “There’s no need to feel bad,” Lucy said, as if reading my thoughts. “I’m sure your dear Miss Willoughby won’t mind that you’re enjoying yourself without her for one night. At least, if she truly loves you, she shouldn’t.”

  “She does love me,” I replied, with perhaps a bit too much insistence. “And I love her.”

  “Then there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “But how did you know that’s what I was thinking?”

  “It was as plain as the nose on your face,” Lucy answered, releasing my hand for a moment to tap the tip of my mask’s elongated nose. “Besides, it’s easy to tell what you’re thinking. Your eyes and mouth betray your emotions. For instance, I could tell the first time I laid eyes on you that you had something sinister planned.”

  “Exposing frauds isn’t sinister,” I said. “It’s a public service.”

  “Not to me, it’s not,” Lucy remarked. “But I knew right away you’d be a challenge. Just like I knew before you stepped onto this dance floor that you were worried about making a fool of yourself.”

  “I’m sure my hesitation also helped with that deduction.”

  “Well, yes, it did,” Lucy said. “But it was more than that. I saw it in your eyes.”

  I looked into Lucy’s eyes, trying to see if I could detect what she was thinking. Unlike mine, those twin emeralds gave no hint of her emotions or thoughts. Yet I continued to stare into them, hoping some hint of her mind-set would eventually peek through.

  “You were right,” I said. “I was worried about making a fool of myself in front of you.”

  “You needn’t have worried,” Lucy replied. “You’re a fine dancer. Who taught you?”

  “My mother. Many, many years ago.”

  “She taught you well.”

  I gave her a nod of thanks. “Where did you learn to dance?”

  “Mrs. Day’s Dance School in Baltimore. Her motto was that a proper lady must know how to dance.”

  “But you’re no lady,” I said with a gentle smile.

  “I’m not,” Lucy replied. “And you’re far too much of a gentleman.”

  I was about to protest, but Lucy stopped me with a shake of her head. “Don’t say anything else, Edward. It will only s
poil things.”

  Heeding her words, I stayed silent, even as she pulled me closer. Pressed against her, breathing in her lavender scent, I felt more intoxicated than before. All my concerns drifted away. I forgot about Violet. And my father. And even why we had come to the ball in the first place. All I focused on was the swell of the music, the ease of our movements, the way the cool satin of Lucy’s gown slid beneath my palm.

  I quite likely could have remained that way for hours had it not been for a sight that yanked me back into reality.

  I was spinning Lucy across the floor when someone standing near the orchestra caught my attention. It was a man wearing a cape similar to my own and a mask that covered everything but his eyes. The mask itself was featureless—a white blank that followed our progress across the floor. Behind it were eyes that studied us with distinct curiosity.

  “I don’t like the way that man is looking at us,” I whispered to Lucy.

  “Which one?”

  “The man in the white mask,” I said, twirling her around so she could get a look at him. “What if he knows we’re not invited?”

  “How on earth would he know that?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he’s the noseless man. Maybe he’s waiting for us.”

  “Nonsense,” Lucy said. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. We’re near Mr. Barnum.”

  Indeed we were, having managed to swirl toward the platform. P. T. Barnum, maskless, still filled the throne. Standing next to him was the tiny man I had seen earlier, swaying with the music.

  “Hello, Mr. Barnum!” Lucy called to him. “What a wonderful party you’ve put together. I’m having the time of my life! Thank you so very much.”

  Barnum acknowledged her gratitude with a nod. “You’re quite welcome, my dear. Glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Oh, I am.” Lucy gestured to the very short man standing next to Mr. Barnum. “Although apparently not as much as this little fellow.”

  “This is Commodore Nutt,” Barnum said, extending his arm to the man by way of greeting. “One of my favorite performers.”

  I was only mildly familiar with the name. Mr. Nutt was Barnum’s replacement for Tom Thumb, who had struck out on his own after their contract ended. Although just as miniscule as the famous Mr. Thumb, I knew that the commodore couldn’t match him in popularity. Still, he looked happy enough, bowing before me and trotting to the edge of the platform to kiss Lucy’s hand.

  “How do you do?” he said.

  “Charmed,” Lucy replied before turning again to our host. “Such delightful characters they are. Mr. Nutt, of course, and those twins and the lady with the beard. And that man with no nose.”

  Previously, Mr. Barnum had been looking past Lucy, interested more in the couples circling the dance floor. But now he gazed down at her with undivided attention. “I beg your pardon, my dear. What man?”

  “Why, a very pale gentleman with no nose,” Lucy said. “His face was quite alarming. I assumed he worked for you.”

  “I can assure you he does not,” Mr. Barnum said. “And who, exactly, are you?”

  Lucy lowered her mask and gestured for me to do the same. Mr. Barnum recognized us at once. Surprisingly, he looked happy to see us.

  “Ah, Mrs. Collins and Mr. Clark! What a pleasure. It completely slipped my mind that I had invited the two of you.”

  At that moment, guilt got the better of me. Perhaps it was because of how delighted Mr. Barnum was to see us, or maybe it was the extravagance of the ball itself, which must have cost a small fortune to host. Whatever the reason, I felt compelled to admit the truth.

  “We weren’t invited,” I said. “We came because we needed to speak with you.”

  “About what?” Barnum asked, not surprised, but also not affronted.

  “The death of Lenora Grimes Pastor.”

  Mr. Barnum leaned over the arm of his throne and whispered something into the ear of Commodore Nutt. Barnum then stood, gestured to an unobtrusive doorway in the corner of the room, and said, “Follow me.”

  With a boost from Mr. Barnum, the tiny commodore took his temporary place on the throne. Barnum then hopped off the platform and led Lucy and me through the doorway.

  We found ourselves in the hotel’s kitchen, an infernally hot cavern roughly the size of the ballroom itself and just as crowded. White-capped cooks stirred cauldrons of soup and basted sides of beef while waiters rushed by with trays both empty and arm-achingly full. Mouthwatering smells were everywhere. In just a few seconds, I detected fish, oranges, ripe cheese, roasted chicken, rendered pork fat. The scents rose to the ceiling, joining a cloud of smoke and steam that trapped the fragrant heat and made the room feel like one giant oven.

  Mr. Barnum fanned himself as he asked, “So, what more do you know about Mrs. Pastor’s death? Has there been any news?”

  “Not much at all,” I replied. “I know that she was threatened in the days before she was killed. Mr. Pastor seems to think it was the work of a man with a pale, deformed face.”

  “This man with no nose?” Barnum asked.

  “Correct.”

  A waiter, burdened with a silver tray as large as a wagon wheel, pushed by us, forcing the three of us against the wall.

  “And you assumed he works for me?” Barnum inquired.

  “Mr. Pastor seems to think so, yes,” I said. “But you say he doesn’t.”

  “He most certainly does not.” Beads of perspiration, due to the intense heat, had started to form on Mr. Barnum’s wide brow. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his face with it. “I employ a wide variety of unusual specimens, to be sure, but no one missing a nose. And I certainly wouldn’t send anyone off to threaten defenseless women.”

  “Our apologies,” I said. “We meant no offense.”

  “No apology is necessary, my boy,” Mr. Barnum replied. “I understand why Mr. Pastor would think the way he did. His wife’s death was a terrible loss. Both personally and professionally.”

  “You knew her well?” Lucy asked him.

  Mr. Barnum stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Oh, I wanted to, my dear. I wanted the world to know her well. I’m at a bit of a crossroads professionally, you see. My museums have become too expensive to maintain . . . seeing that they keep burning down. The authorities call the fires accidental, but I know they were set on purpose. Every one of them. Started either by my rivals or those who opposed my antislavery views. Whatever the cause, I now need a new business endeavor. Someone amazing. Someone who could enchant the world in the same manner Jenny Lind did.”

  “And you thought Mrs. Pastor was such a person?” I asked.

  “I know she was,” Barnum replied. “I had read a bit about her in the newspapers, but never paid much attention to it. Mediums, after all, are commonplace nowadays, and the majority of them are frauds.”

  I glanced at Lucy, eager to see her reaction. Born actress that she was, she offered none. Not even when Mr. Barnum said, “Those wretched crooks. They should all be tossed in jail for what they do. A whole lot of humbug is what it is.”

  I interjected before he could say anything more, “But you thought Mrs. Pastor was different?”

  “Only after a lengthy period of time. I kept hearing from friends in this city about how amazing her séances could be, with floating instruments and invisible musicians and voices emerging from her small frame. Finally, I decided to go see for myself what all the fuss was about. I was left dumbstruck, and immediately I envisioned her doing the same thing in opera houses and music halls around the world. Imagine how glorious it would have been!”

  “When was this first visit?” I asked.

  “A little more than a week ago.”

  So far, this was in keeping with what Stokely had told me. Mr. Barnum had attended one séance the week before Saturday and then another on Saturday night.

  “Between those two visits,” Mr. Barnum continued, “I had reached out to Mrs. Pastor about possibly going on tour. She refused m
y offer outright. She said that although she didn’t mind using her gifts to help others, she didn’t want to profit from them. I told her that if she signed a two-year contract, I’d build ten of her precious Quaker schools. Even that failed to sway her. Yet I was determined to get her to change her mind, hence my visit to that sad, final séance.”

  “Do you know if Mrs. Pastor ever told her husband about your offer?” Lucy asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t,” Mr. Barnum replied. “I would assume she did.”

  “And did you mention the offer to anyone?” I asked.

  To that query, P. T. Barnum could only laugh. “Of course not. I’m a businessman, Mr. Clark. I never announce who I’m trying to woo. That is, unless I want to burden my rivals with a horrible act. Then I publicly announce my desire to sign that act and watch my rivals fall all over themselves trying to make a contract with what is surely a money-losing prospect. I must admit, it’s great fun.”

  Needless to say, such machinations left Lucy more than a little impressed. “You are truly an inspiration, my dear Mr. Barnum,” she said.

  “I’ve been in business a long time, Mrs. Collins,” he replied, “and I’ve learned many lessons along the way. That particular one came about after I announced my intent to pursue an act I truly did want to work with. When word got out, he decided to set out on his own, and with great success, I might add. I’ve stayed quiet ever since.”

  “Would we have heard of him?” Lucy asked.

  “Perhaps. He was called the Amazing Magellan.”

  The name left me immediately and thoroughly breathless. I tried to appear calm, but my heart was thrumming at a hundred beats per second.

  “You knew him?” I asked.

  “We were quite close,” Barnum said. “It was a terrible thing, too, what happened to his wife. I don’t know what possessed him to do it.”

  Behind him, one of the cooks tossed a hearty splash of wine onto the beef he was cooking, sending up a pillar of flames so bright that I had to close my eyes. When I opened them, I saw Mr. Barnum, head tilted, taking a long look at me.