The Virgin Cure (20 page)

The bevelled glass in the door reminded me of the entrance to Mrs. Wentworth’s, and although Mae had seemed honest enough to me, it was hard to shake the memory of being caught in a situation with no way out. I thought of Eliza Adler, her body floating in the river. I stuck my hand in my pocket to feel for my knife.
If I die today, at least I’ll go with a full belly
.

Mrs. Riordan had often reminisced about her childhood, saying, “We was poor, but we didn’t know it.” But she’d had a family and a mother who’d bothered to care for her—she’d had love. I hated being poor. Mama never did anything to make our life seem better than it was. She’d spend her days making something out of nothing for everyone else, but when it came to inventing happiness for me, it was too much trouble.
I won’t be like you, Mama. I won’t fade away
.

Laughter came from the other side of the door along with the voices of at least three young women. Although I couldn’t make out much of what they were saying, I could tell they were having a high time teasing each other. “It’s true!” one of them exclaimed, amid more fits of laughter. I was all but certain it was Mae.

Over our stew, she’d told me a fair bit about the matron of the house, Miss Emma Everett. Mae had explained that she knew of any number of madams across the city who’d be glad to take me on, but that none of them cared about their girls half as much as Miss Everett did hers. “Those other women only care for profit,” Mae said with an air of disgust. “They allow men to line up halfway around the block and wear out their girls’ bodies just so they can fill their pockets with more cash.

“Raising girls to be gentlemen’s companions, and highly paid ones at that, is Miss Everett’s business. She’ll start you off slow and smart, teach you to keep company like a lady, and how best to attend to a gentleman’s needs. No agreement is made until she feels a girl’s ready, and even then, only if the gent’s willing to pay the right price. Miss Everett’s girls live freely and generously. We drink, eat and sleep like royal mistresses, and care for nobody on earth.”

I could tell she was being careful to put things in a way she thought would sound best to my ears, but I kept quiet and let her finish. I was just so thankful to be seen as more than a sad-faced girl in a ragged dress.

Not long after the sound of the girls’ laughter died away, the door to the house opened and a woman appeared. Petite and attractive, she stood above me on the steps, wearing a blue satin dress that dipped low at the neck and gathered tight at the waist. Her hair was pulled back and tucked inside a pretty snood, its long ribbon hanging gracefully behind her right ear. The lace gloves she wore on her hands matched it perfectly, down to the ties at her wrists.

“Miss Fenwick?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied as I got to my feet, regretting I’d not stood up as soon as I’d heard the latch move in the door.

After looking me over from head to toe she said, “You may address me as Miss Everett.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said with an awkward bow. Then, stumbling to find a more proper greeting, I added, “Pleased to meet you, Miss Everett.”

By the lines at the corners of her mouth, I could see she was past the age for bridal gowns and babes in arms. The telltale wrinkles on her powdered, heart-shaped face gave her a look of constant seriousness.

“This way, Miss Fenwick,” she said, holding the door open for me.

The house was far more lavish on the inside than out. It was just as well-fitted as Mrs. Wentworth’s home, yet more comfortable and bright. Rather than having tiles in the entryway, carpets had been laid the entire length of the hall, so thick I thought I was about to sink into the floor with every step.

Miss Everett led me to the front parlour and invited me to sit. “Wait here while I arrange a few things, then we can discuss matters further.”

I nodded, but before I could reply she turned her back on me.

Mae was there in the parlour with another girl, the two of them seated on a couch with plum-coloured velvet cushions. Fresh bouquets of flowers had been placed on every table, and the air in the room was thick with the scent of roses. A piano filled one corner, a gilded harp another, and fine paintings covered nearly every inch of the walls. There was a picture of a cabbage rose opening up to beams of sunlight, and a scene of a river winding through countryside making its way to a forest glen. Hanging over the piano was a portrait of a young girl holding a basket of fruit. Her blouse had fallen to reveal one shoulder, and her hair tumbled in loose curls around her neck. So serene was the expression on her face, I guessed she hadn’t a care in the world. The brass plate attached to the frame read,
The Gypsy Girl’s Bounty
. From the room’s tasselled curtains to its chandelier, to the tea cart that was parked in front of the couch, I wanted it all.

The cart was set with a silver service and three round trays piled high with perfect, tiny cakes. There were round ones, and square ones and even little cakes shaped like hearts—all frosted with sugar ribbons and icing flowers of yellow, blue and pink.

“Tea?” Mae offered, reaching for the teapot.

“Yes, please,” I answered, hoping that it might take my mind off worrying over whether Miss Everett was going to take me in.

The girl next to Mae stared at me, her blue eyes bright and sweet, as if she were still a child who could easily be impressed. Her hair was the colour of clean straw and the dress she wore was even nicer than Mae’s, a beautiful pink frock with a princess neck and velvet trim. She was shapely and pretty, but didn’t act as if she knew it.

“This is Alice Creaghan,” Mae said, handing me a saucer with a steaming cup of tea.

“Mae brought me here too, when I had no place to go,” the girl confided. “She spotted me running for my life and stepped up to save me.”

Alice had the same crazy-eyed zeal when she talked about Mae as the missionaries I’d seen up on their soapboxes along the Bowery, shouting for people to come to them to be
saved
. They pounded their fists against their bibles and read lengthy passages about temptation and hell to anyone who’d listen. “When she brought me to Miss Everett’s,” Alice said, “I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

Reaching for one of the little cakes on the tray, Mae said, “Who knew heaven was a brothel.” She winked at me as she bit into the treat with her shiny white teeth.

I reached for one of the cakes as well and stuffed the whole of it in my mouth at once. The thick icing stuck to my tongue, its sweetness melting and humming down my throat.

“Mae came in through Miss Rose Duval,” Alice continued. “Miss Duval has her own room and a steady gent. He brings her anything her heart desires and pays for her to be seen by only him. There’s even talk he’s planning to put her in an apartment soon, in the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He’s Chief of Detectives, you know.”

Shaking her head, Mae frowned at Alice. “You shouldn’t have said that last bit.”

“What’s the harm in it?” Alice complained. “Moth will soon be one of us.”

“If Miss Everett agrees to it,” Mae said, taking another cake.

“And if the doctor says you’re clean,” Alice added, then smiled at me reassuringly.

Doctors rarely came to the slums of Chrystie Street. The people there either couldn’t afford their care, or were too scared to call for them. I’d grown up hearing stories of the bad things that happened when the doctor came. Aside from the pain and tears he’d likely bring to your door, the bill he’d leave behind would take you straight from the sickbed to the poorhouse.

Mrs. Popovitch’s on Broome Street was the place most people went when they needed healing. Using remedies from the old country, she’d help women when they didn’t want to have babies, or when the babies they did want got stuck. She yanked out bad teeth and knew how to
cup
away disease. She was a quiet woman, with large, strong hands, and hair gone white before its time. I liked walking past her house, especially on sunny days. She kept her cups sitting upside down in her window. They sparkled there, on a long, lace runner, waiting for Mrs. Popovitch to heat them up with a flame and stick them on a person’s back. She claimed they’d suck the sickness right out of a person’s body.

But Mama didn’t trust physicians or Mrs. Popovitch. She said that if a person couldn’t be cured by drinking a bit of tonic and taking to bed for a day, then maybe they weren’t meant for this world after all.

When Alice mentioned the doctor, my cup slipped in its saucer, hot tea sloshing over the edge of the cup. “Don’t worry,” Mae said, shaking her head. “The doctor is a
lady
physician. She looks over all us girls.”

Belly rumbling, I wondered if a lady doctor was any better than a man, and if I dared reach out and take a second cake for myself. The meal I’d shared with Mae felt like it had been days ago, and I longed for every last one of those cakes.

Mae pinched two cubes from the sugar bowl with a pair of silver tongs. Letting the cubes fall one after another into her cup, she gave me a sly grin as she reached back to the bowl once more. “Two makes it sweet enough, but I always add a third … just to make myself happy,” she said. The last cube splashed into her cup, making the tea jump, but she didn’t spill a single drop. She placed the tongs in front of me. “What makes you happy, Moth?”

I didn’t pick up the tongs or take any sugar. I drank my tea fast, feeling the heat of it going down my throat, warming my belly.

Mrs. Wentworth’s gold bracelet circled around my arm. A handful of coins in my pocket. Sugary cake melting on my tongue
.

“Plenty,” I told her, taking another sweet from the tray and popping it into my mouth.

With clasping arms and cautioning lips
,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips
.
“Lie close,” Laura said
,
Pricking up her golden head:
We must not look at goblin men
,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?

—from
The Goblin Market
,
Christina Rossetti, 1862

W
hile I sat waiting with Alice and Mae, two of the other young ladies who lived in the house came into the parlour. Half dressed, in flowing silk robes, hair tied in rags, they each filled a napkin with tea cakes and then wandered off again, busy, I assumed, with the task of preparing themselves for the evening ahead. One of them, a willowy girl with a mole on her cheek, nodded to me and smiled, but neither she nor the young woman at her side said a word.

“Miss Emily Sutherland and Miss Missouri Mills,” Alice said, after they were gone.

As I saw Miss Everett coming down the hall to fetch me, Mae whispered, “Make sure you’re quiet on the stairs—Miss Rose Duval’s still sleeping.”

I followed Miss Everett to the topmost part of the house. I worried as we went, every step reminding me of the first night Nestor had led me to the servants’ quarters at Mrs. Wentworth’s.

Miss Everett ushered me into a room with three spool beds lined up the middle, each one dressed with soft-looking quilts and clean, fluffed-up pillows. Three dressing tables sat along one wall, pages from magazines picturing ladies in expensive-looking gowns pinned like wreaths around their mirrors. Hat boxes were stacked five and six high in the corners, piles of colourful hair ribbons draped over their tops. Compared to the space I’d shared with Caroline, the room was a warm, bright nest of girlish wonders. Closing my eyes, I imagined myself asleep here, my cheek resting on the pillows, my eyelids fluttering with dreams.

Miss Everett shut the door behind us. “Dr. Sadie will be joining us shortly,” she announced, “but for now it’s just the two of us.”

I nodded to her, my belly turning. Graff’s oyster stew and too much cake were threatening to make a terrible return.

“Strip off your dress,” she said, arms folded, making it clear it was a command rather than a request.

I reached into my pocket and held tight to my knife. What if Mae was just leading me on, and there was a man waiting to take me right then and there.

“I assume you’ve a blade there,” Miss Everett said, staring at the spot where my fist was clenched under the folds of my skirt. “You’re welcome to keep it in your hand if it brings you comfort, but please remove your dress.”

I’d wanted to seem confident, as if I understood everything that was going on, but it was too late for that. Letting go of my knife, I fumbled with the buttons at my collar, loosening the dress. When I was finished, the dress fell, the knife along with it, to the floor.

“You needn’t worry,” Miss Everett said, bending down, fishing in my pocket for the rusty blade. Placing the handle of the knife in my hand, she said, “If I was the kind of person who meant to hurt girls, you’d already be ruined and back on the street.” Circling around me, she took hold of the edge of my worn, thin chemise and rubbed it between her fingers. “How old are you?” she asked.