I’ve told a few lies in my time. “I’m sure you can hold your liquor”, “of course she’s a virgin”, the like. But they were always fun lies. Lies that get the party going. Lies that break people out of their shells. I’m the Blue Wench, for goodness’s sake, it’s expected of me.

But Marvin Williamson, now there’s a thumper-teller. “Surely the American heartland is ready for entertainment that pushes against taboos”, was that the lie that did it? How did I let him convince me that this tour would be a good idea? It was awful enough before we got waylaid by one of those horrid…things from the war, but now we’re stranded in the middle of nowhere. I was already having trouble getting the crowd to loosen up in the cities, but out here it’s like bashing my head against a rock. Something’s stuck all the way up the starched skirts out here, and it’s probably Puritanism.

(Not a bad line, could work that into a routine once I’m back East).

No more tours after this. I’m going back to the East Coast, signing up for the first leg show I can find, planting my feet down and putting down roots. If Barnum himself wants to make me the next Jenny Lind, I’ll tell him to turn around and bend over so I can boot him out properly. Well, I might take the job if his only other option was Campbell, just to spite her. Whenever she thinks I can’t hear her, she’s complaining about having to share a wagon with whatever euphemism she thinks I deserve at the moment. For someone so dainty and pure, she certainly knows a lot of synonyms for ‘grounsil-blower’. Thank God she broke her foot when the monster attacked. At least I can walk away from her when she tries to order me to change out of my performing tights and back into a skirt once the show’s done.

Not that the rest of the troupe is much better. They all act like I’m ten minutes away from seducing one of them because I work a bit of bawdy humor into my act, which is simply stunning logic. The minstrel players are always pretending to be lazy n******, but nobody whips them into working the fields when we have a day off. Maybe one day I will seduce one of them, just to show the difference between when I’m joking and when I’m serious. One of the more handsome ones, like Prospero or maybe Benton. Or Morrison, but I’m certain he’s already ‘busy’ with his ‘daughter’. Can’t imagine anyone else meeting the basic standards. Burk Andrus adores my act but he smells too much like his partner on stage. Pemberton might let me, but he’d talk my ear off in bed about his ‘revolutionary panacea’ that he’s wasted half his life on. Marvin would make me pay for the pleasure, the greedy fool; he acts like he’ll be able to buy his plantation and all his slaves back if he squeezes a couple more dollars out of everyone he meets. Dunham could offer me a king’s ransom and I’d still refuse to get into his bed; those puppets are almost as bad as the homunculi.

Who am I kidding? I doubt any of them would trust me enough to get that close. Marvin just had to tell then I’m from the Northeast, so they all assume I’m going to rat them out to the nearest Marshal whenever I can when I really just don’t care. My father and uncles both voted for Douglas in 1860; I’m not exactly tying my fortunes to Lincoln’s retired brute in the Oval Office. I guess I could work some more dumb Negro jokes into my routine, but too much of that this far North will get me in a different kind of trouble. I just want to make people laugh and look good doing it; I don’t want to have to reassess the political situation every time I cross a state-line.

Maybe I should go check out the local towns. I’m certain I can do better on stage if I get a feel for how people socialize and make jokes around here. A couple of the others are going to Henshaw to pick up some supplies; maybe there’s a tavern there.