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While I introduced the act, Minnie displayed the blank white cloth for the audience’s perusal. I couldn’t believe how calm she was. Was I a fool to let her rattle me so?
Mr. Bopp’s appearance instigated gasps from the audience. While I told the tragic story of his birth to an indigent mother and his years in the poorhouse, where he supported himself by sewing, Mr. Bopp withdrew a needle with his teeth from the package Minnie offered, stuck it into the cloth stretched on the frame she gripped, and proceeded to thread it with his lips, using a wire needle threader and bright red embroidery silk. He then sewed. Sometimes he darted his head to the other side of the frame to pull the needle through, sometimes he wove it in and out of the cloth from one side by clever use of his lips and teeth. He stopped only to change to green silk, and together we embroidered as I continued the tale of his entry into show business. What a perfect act, I decided. He couldn’t speak with a needle in his mouth.
Mr. Bopp grunted and snapped the thread with his teeth. Minnie presented to the audience a beautifully aligned row of chain-stitched flowers. The crowd burst into applause, as did I. I could tell by the surprised looks of the others that he had never embroidered in a show for Dr. Mink, but I’d wager Bess had known he had it in him. She had seen the worth of that man. I ached again for his loss.
Miss Lightfoot took center stage to tell of her expectant mother, who was frightened by an alligator, and of her subsequent birth. She displayed the scales on her arms and chest in her sleeveless, low-cut dress and raised her full skirts to her knees to show her scaly calves in such a dignified manner no one would dare call her indiscreet. I had never seen her quite so animated.
“However, this alligator woman has breeding of another scaly nature,” she said. “For I must confess that the study of music has been o
ne of my loves.” There were appreciative chuckles.
Mr. Ginger stepped from the curtains, oboe in hand, in smart evening attire, marred only by the strange cap he wore.
I had planned to visit Tauseret during the song, but I decided to walk the perimeter of the barn instead. I would feel better if I was sure that no one besides the neighbors was watching us this night.
Miss Lightfoot sang “A Bird in a Gilded Cage” to Mr. Ginger’s accompaniment, and I couldn’t help but think it ironic that she, too, had been a captive on display. That made the song all the more poignant.
I checked in the stalls and then skirted the wall. What would I do if I did find Mink or one of his men? I slid a blade from my bandolier and prayed I needn’t find out. Finally, I stood behind the audience. I peered outside through a crack between the barn doors. The night was starlit and calm. A cat crossed a beam of moonlight, paused a second to stare at me, then moved on. I exhaled. Had I let a little girls imagination spook me?
“Perhaps you think I have one accompanist,” Miss Lightfoot said at the end of her song. “But I assure you, I have two.”
I turned to watch.
Mr. Ginger whipped off his cap. The audience inhaled as if one. At least four ladies toppled into the arms of escorts and family.
Mr. Ginger raised his oboe to the tremulous lips of his submerged twin, and into the silence emerged one squeak and then a second.
“I’m afraid my brother isn’t as musical as I,” said Mr. Ginger.
The strained hush continued. I held my breath. Had we appalled them? Was this more than they could bear?
“And he ain’t near as pretty as you neither,” called Mr. Bopp.
Someone chuckled, then another, and the response grew to a roar.
“That’s some pumpkins,” called an old-timer.
“Yeah, a jack-o’-lantern,” called another to more laughter.
“Brave fellow,” a lady insisted, and rose to her feet to applaud. Others followed. I took this as a signal to hurry behind the stage and urge the whole troupe out for their bows.
“That sure beat the county fair,” a towheaded boy said as people left the barn, and Mr. Webster beamed.
The Websters threw a party after the show, with plenty of cider. We were invited to join, and even Mr. Bopp agreed, mostly due to the cider.
“I should see if Tauseret is well,” I said.
“She’s sleeping in the water trough,” said Bertha.
“Let her sleep,” said Miss Lightfoot. “She is quite unused to the exercise she’s had today.”
“Carry me,” insisted Minnie. “I’ll cry if you don’t.”
I gave in and went with them to the party. Mink’s men wouldn’t know Tauseret was connected with us, and I felt safer among a crowd.
There were paper lanterns on the porch and streamers hung from the trees. Miss Lightfoot expressed delight. “Why, I haven’t attended a garden party in years,” she exclaimed as she crossed the lawn on Mr. Ginger’s arm.
“Stay in the light and away from the bushes,” I told the children. I ordered Apollo to keep a close eye on them. The Webster offspring took it upon themselves to be possessive and solicitous, since our children were their claim to local fame, and soon a healthy game of fox and chickens ensued, with all participating amicably.
