The Virgin Cure (22 page)

October 16, 1871

Rounds were made to the usual boarding houses today. (Two cases of diphtheria, one infant with catarrh. Preventative powders and tracts on venereal diseases were given to young women at 111 and 112 Spring Street, as well as 97 Mercer.)

A new boarder has arrived at Seventy-three East Houston.

“Moth” Fenwick, allegedly fifteen years of age. After examining the girl, I would estimate her age to be closer to thirteen years at most. She’s far too young in body and heart to be any older.

When I told Miss Everett as much, she argued that the child is fifteen and old enough to know her mind. “Malnourished,” she insisted when I made note of the girl’s undeveloped physique. As proof, she went on to say that she’d seen the girl begging on the Bowery on several occasions. Which begs the question—did Miss Everett entice her?

“She came of her own free will.”

For my part in today’s deceptions, I lied when Miss Everett asked about the girl’s internal exam. (She got the news she wanted, nonetheless.) The girl is
virgo intacta
, but I didn’t need to touch her to know it. I’ve seen enough girls in the infirmary, in orphanages, in lodging, boarding and whore houses to know whether or not a child has been had by a man.

She’s too young. She’s not bled yet. She has no family, no home.

I’ve been visiting that house for nearly a year, but had never encountered a girl of such tender age. To the child’s credit, she’s intelligent and bold. I only wish she’d allowed me to find a place for her elsewhere.

Miss Everett was quick to remind me that I’ve nothing to offer a girl that can compare to what she’s got to give. “A spot in a house of refuge? A position as a scullery maid or thread-puller? What sort of life is that?”

A life free from the threat of disease and the hardship of being put upon by men.

“Remember Katherine Tully,” she retorted.

How can I forget?

S.F.

M
iss Everett chose to take me on. “You’ll do fine,” she’d said, putting her hand on my shoulder after the doctor was done with me. “I’m sure of it.”

At first blush, life in the house seemed near perfect. Vases filled with pink buds of affection graced every room. Boxes of chocolates and bottles of wine sat crowded together on a marble table at the bottom of the stairs, the cards attached to them addressed to
Miss Sutherland, Miss Mills, Miss Duval
. Even the house’s cook, Mrs. Coyne, was everything a girl would want her to be, friendly and warm—the opposite of Caroline. She welcomed me with a bowl of chicken stew and a hearty “Pleased to meet you, miss,” the minute I sat down for the first time at her kitchen table. The stew, made from the better parts of a bird, fresh carrots and peas, wasn’t quite as tasty as the dishes Caroline had served Nestor and me, but it was still far above anything I’d ever gotten at home. I tipped the bowl to catch the last drops of broth in my spoon, not wanting to leave them behind.

“Save something for the rag-woman’s pot,” Miss Everett scolded, suddenly appearing at my shoulder.

I dropped the spoon in the bowl, handle clattering against the rim. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Bristling at my clumsiness, she reached out to take the bowl. “Manners over appetite,” she chided. “Grace knows no hunger.”

Mrs. Tuesday was the rag-lady who’d come knocking at Mrs. Wentworth’s kitchen door once a week. The hunched-over woman collected leftovers and rags in exchange for the buttons and spools of thread she carried in her two-wheeled cart. Her rig was pulled by a pair of Swissy dogs wearing collars of bells that jangled as they walked. On Tuesdays, Nestor took care to save the bones from Mrs. Wentworth’s plate so he could give them to the woman’s dogs. In good weather, he and Mrs. Tuesday would share tea on the basement steps. Before leaving, the rag-lady would sing a song for him, her voice rising up the bricks of the house and over the roof, filling the air with sadness and despair. I wondered if the woman who came to Miss Everett’s back door could sing like that.

After I’d finished my meal, a young man came into the kitchen carrying a basket filled with boots. The pungent scent of blacking came with him. When he saw Miss Everett he set the basket down and pulled the faded soldier’s cap he was wearing off his head. “The girls’ boots is shined, Miss Everett,” he said. “Anything else you need?”

His voice was strangely rough compared to his clean-shaven, soft-looking face. His brows, thick and dark, shaded large eyes with long lashes. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his sinewy arms hung down at his sides, their length putting his age somewhere between boy and man.

“Draw a bath for Miss Fenwick in Rose’s room, won’t you, Cadet?”

“Yes, Miss Everett,” he responded. Taking two buckets from hooks on the wall, he set to work.

A tin washtub near the kitchen door was what Miss Everett said would normally be used for my bathing, but for my first bath in the house I was to use Miss Rose Duval’s copper tub. “It was a gift from her lover,” Miss Everett explained with pride, “delivered as a surprise for her seventeenth birthday.”

I lost count as Cadet carried bucket after bucket of water from the heated boiler attached to Mrs. Coyne’s stove, his hands turning red as he gripped their rope handles. His hair fell in his eyes and sweat dripped from his brow, and I felt terrible about the effort he was making on my behalf. If I’d had the courage I would’ve asked Miss Everett to tell him to stop, that surely he had carried enough hot water, but I was afraid to question anything she said for fear she might turn me back out onto the street.

Rose’s room was warm with the glow of fire and lamplight when we arrived. There was a bouquet of red roses on her dressing table along with a collection of perfume bottles and a silver brush and comb. Gilded mirrors—round, oval, oblong and square—covered an entire wall, reflecting the image of the plump-lipped, dark-eyed beauty waiting to greet me. With her dressing gown open at the neck and her dark hair spiralling around her shoulders, I could see why she’d thought to be an actress. Even half dressed Rose was something of a star.

“I’ll leave Miss Fenwick to you,” Miss Everett said to Rose.

“Certainly,” Rose replied. Shutting the door after the madam had gone, she turned to me and said, “Right this way.”

“Thank you, Miss Duval.”

“Please, call me Rose.”

Taking a small blue bottle from her dressing table, she pulled the stopper and shook a few drops of lavender-scented perfume into the bath. “Don’t be shy,” she said with a sweet smile. “Modesty makes the water turn cold.”

The tub was near the fireplace, half hidden from the rest of the room by a tall, three-panelled screen. Decorated with scenes from the Orient, the screen reminded me of Mrs. Wentworth’s fan, the creatures painted on it staring at me with fierce, hungry eyes.

Handing me a cake of soap, Rose directed me behind the screen. “You can undress back there.”

I brought the soap to my nose and inhaled the strong, spicy scent of carnations. It had yet to be used—the cake’s edges were still square. The innocent lump of lye and fat seemed quite a luxury, especially compared to the slivers Caroline used to have me fetch from Mrs. Wentworth’s bath for us.

“I’m here if you need me,” Rose called from the other side of the screen.

I’d watched mothers dunk their babies into washtubs in the courtyard on the hottest days of the summer. The children would squeal from the shock of it, then giggle with glee. Mama had turned her nose up at the sight of them, so I was sure she’d never done the same for me. She had strict ideas about how to stay clean and tried her best to keep the water she used running like a river, according to Gypsy law. She only washed herself straight from the pump or with water poured from a pitcher over her skin, and never allowed the water in the shallow tub under her feet to collect past her ankles. “Baths breed sickness,” she’d say, shaking her head.

The tub was large enough for me to stretch my legs nearly straight. Sinking into the warm, steaming bath, I scrubbed the oily sourness of the city off my skin, and then slid down until I could rest my head on the smooth, rounded edge of the tub. Comfort, ease and hopefulness conjured by the water, I would gladly have spent half the night lounging there. Mama could keep her superstitions.

“This is for when you’re finished,” Rose said, as a dressing gown appeared over the top of the screen. “There’s no hurry, though. Mr. Chief of Detectives is busy keeping the peace tonight, so I’ve got the room to myself.”

Muslin clinging to my skin, I came from behind the screen to warm myself by the fire. I flinched when I spotted my reflection in Rose’s mirrors. The bath had caused my hair to spring into a curly halo that stuck out every-which-way from my head. It would be months before it would fall past my shoulders and I could plait it into one long braid.

“Come sit,” Rose said, patting the seat of the dressing table’s chair. “Let me see what I can do.”

Settling there, I watched as Rose took up a bottle of Circassian oil and poured a generous amount of the sweet-smelling liquid into her hand. The bottle’s label featured a winsome girl gazing at a bird in a cage. Her long, wavy hair, nourished and tamed by the magical lotion, flowed to the ground. After rubbing the oil into her palms, Rose stroked it into my hair, calming my curls.

“I swear by the stuff,” she said. “I use it morning and night.”

Opening a porcelain box that sat next to her brush and comb, Rose took out a rat of hair that had been fashioned into a sausage-shaped twist. “I had nits as a child and my mother cut my hair more than once. I save every strand now for fear I’ll lose it again.”

With combs and patience and the rat of her hair, Rose went about making it seem like my locks were as long as they’d ever been. No matter how I turned my head, it looked as if I’d simply chosen to pin my hair up into a sweet, lovely bun.

“I’ll take extra care with the rat, I promise,” I told her, touching her creation lightly to see that it was secure.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got others,” Rose said with a smile.

While I was certain Mama’s tales about Mrs. Deery’s madness had been more show than truth, I planned to do my best not to think any ill thoughts while wearing Rose’s hair on my head. It was the least I could do.

“You got a first name, Miss Beautiful?” Rose teased, as she watched me admire myself and her handiwork in the mirror.

“Moth.”

“Moth?” She shook her head. “Miss Everett’s never going to let you keep that. You’d better change it before she changes it for you.”

Thinking she was making a joke, I didn’t respond.

“I was
Ruth
before I was Rose,” she confided. “Miss Everett said Ruth was far too biblical. I can just guess how she’ll feel about a girl being named after a bug. She’ll turn you into a flower or a state without a second thought. If you don’t want to be called Iris or Georgia, you’d better find something to call yourself instead of Moth. That’s certainly not your real name—what was the one your mother gave you?”

“Oh,” I said, pausing to think. “It’s Ada.”

“Ada,” Rose repeated, stretching the name out, her mouth wide open.
“Aye-dahh
… I like it. It has appeal.”

Putting a finger to my chin, I looked in the mirror and tried pouting like Mae had done with the oyster man.
Moth. Moth Fenwick. Miss Fenwick. Miss Beautiful. Miss Ada Fenwick, beautiful girl
. For the first time in my life I actually felt pretty.

“You’ve done wonders, Rose,” Miss Everett said as she came into the room, catching me still staring at myself in Rose’s mirror.

“Ada made it easy,” Rose replied, giving me a wink.

Coming to my side, Miss Everett whispered in my ear, “Careful with your pride, dear. You’ve still a ways to go.”

My face fell.

“That’s better,” she said, smiling. “Much better.”