There was an empty room at the hotel for Amelia as well, but she wanted the comfort of the familiar this one last time. If it was not home, then she at least knew what was expected of her here.
Amelia slipped inside the apartment. Inside all was dark. She knew that if Barnum was still awake, he would likely be inside the museum. She had often heard him returning in the wee hours of the morning when she was unable to sleep.
She had nearly reached the door of her room when there was a footstep behind her and a tiny mewling noise. Charity stood there, in a white muslin nightgown and cap, with newborn Frances on her shoulder.
When the child was born, Amelia had been nearly overwhelmed by longing. She was so tiny, so pink, so blind and helpless, and yet this small thing could scream the house down, send everyone running to do her bidding. The first time Charity allowed Amelia to hold Frances, the mermaid had been afraid she might break this fragile thing if she gripped too hard.
But Charity had laughed and shown her how to be cautious of the baby’s head, and then smiled fondly on the two of them as Amelia had leaned in and breathed the delicate scent that came off the baby’s skin. Human babies actually smelled new, she discovered, new and sweet. Mermaid babies did not have this, or rather Amelia did not remember it being so. Then again, she could not recall ever holding a new mermaid.
“Are you staying, then?” Charity asked.
Amelia couldn’t tell from the tone of her voice whether Charity welcomed the idea. She’d been horrified by the news of the mob at the Concert Hall, but despite the fact that a good portion of people had seen Amelia change from a human to a creature of the sea, Charity still seemed to think it was a trick of some sort. She herself had not attended due to the need to stay with the baby.
Barnum had refused to take Caroline if her mother was not present, and Caroline’s resulting tantrum had been in full flow when Amelia and Levi left for the Concert Hall.
Amelia said, “I will stay, for now.”
Charity approached her, so that they stood only a few feet away from each other in the dark. Amelia could not read the expression on Charity’s face. The shadows kept shifting, playing tricks.
“Are you really a mermaid?” Charity asked.
“I’ve told you I am,” Amelia said.
She felt a little stab of impatience; would the woman believe nothing without the proof of her own eyes? Charity was a regular churchgoer, and Amelia felt there was nothing more absurd than believing in a God who never spoke or appeared to you but disbelieving a mermaid that sat in your parlor.
“Everyone said—Taylor, and Levi, and all the papers.” One of her hands fluttered against Frances’s back.
“Yes,” Amelia said.
“Why . . .” Charity said, and trailed off.
Amelia thought she would never dare say whatever she was about to in the light of day. Charity felt protected by the darkness and their solitude and, most importantly, the absence of Barnum.
“Why would you come here if you could swim in the sea and be free?” Charity asked.
“I fell in love,” Amelia said.
“Yes,” Charity said. “But after he died, you could have returned to your own people. You could have had the life you had before.”
“I don’t think I could have,” Amelia said. “I left because I wanted something I didn’t have, and once I loved Jack and lost him, I wasn’t the same as I was before. Love does that. It changes you in ways that can’t be undone.”
“Yes, it traps you,” Charity said. “It puts you in a cage that you can’t escape.”
Amelia moved a little closer. She wanted to see Charity’s eyes, even if they were just a gleam in the darkness.
“You must have loved him once.”
“Of course I did. And he romanced me, you know, despite the fact that his mother did not approve. He was younger than I, and handsome, and determined to have me. He was a clerk in a shop, and I was a tailoress in Bethel, his hometown. He said that my face haunted his dreams the first night we met.”
Amelia had trouble imagining Barnum as a young lover. She could hardly imagine him caring about anything so ephemeral and unlikely to profit him as love.
“What happened to him, that’s what you’re wondering,” Charity said with a little laugh. “Marriage was an adventure for him, until it wasn’t. His mother didn’t think I was good enough for him, thought Taylor could do better than a mere tailoress. We married in New York City without her knowledge. He’d told her he was coming here on business and came home with a wife. I think part of the reason he loved me was the excitement of keeping the secret. Once you’re married, there are no more secrets, only staid respectability. I don’t think Taylor has ever really wanted respectability, else he wouldn’t be in the business he is in. And I keep disappointing him with girl children instead of boys.”
“Why is a girl less valuable than a boy?” Amelia asked. She’d heard this before and did not understand it. Did not women bear the next generation? Was not that power more profound than anything a man could do?
“Men like to have sons to carry on their name,” Charity said. “They aren’t men otherwise.”
“A girl can have her father’s name,” Amelia said.
“Until she is married. You know this,” Charity said with a touch of exasperation. “You took your own husband’s name. When you marry your husband you belong to him.”
“Because I did not have a human name of my own,” Amelia said. “Not because I became his property. Jack never thought I belonged to him.”
“Then your husband was exceptional,” Charity said, “and you were blessed. For I belong to my husband, who expects me to obey him in all things, and who feels free to disregard my wishes or to mock me in front of others. And I don’t believe my husband is different from most men.”
Amelia realized then that she had something Charity had never had—a choice. If Charity had not married P. T. Barnum, then she would have married some other man, or lived in the house of her father until she died. She would not have left her home the way Amelia had, or lived on her own, or traveled to a different city and put herself on display. She would have done exactly what was expected of her, always, as most women did.
“I am sorry for you,” Amelia said. She knew this wasn’t the correct thing to say, that one was not supposed to show pity and that Charity was particularly sensitive to it.
“Do not feel sorry for me,” Charity snapped. Then, more calmly, “I have my girls. Taylor may not value them, but I do. It’s more than some have.”
This seemed like a pointed remark on Amelia’s lack of fertility, and she was surprised that it hurt. Each time she thought Charity would open up or change her mind about Amelia, she’d been wrong.
“I will be moving to the hotel tomorrow,” Amelia said, stiff with politeness. This was the thing she must do—show gratitude to her hostess. Charity did not wish anything else from her. “Thank you for allowing me to stay in your home.”
Amelia went into her room before Charity could respond. She didn’t want to engage any further with her, and as she lay on her bed, she realized she’d only wanted something she’d never had before—a friend.
And because it hurt, because she hated the pried-open feeling of being vulnerable, she decided she would no longer try. What need had a mermaid of friends? Why become attached when her situation was only temporary?
After all, she knew very well she would leave New York City one day. And even if she didn’t, she was going to live a very long time—longer than Barnum or Charity, longer than Levi Lyman, perhaps even longer than little Caroline or Helen or Frances.