The Virgin Cure (35 page)

My nose almost touching the glass, I stared at Miss Gertu. Her skin was dark, with a golden cast like Mama’s. Standing there, I wondered if my mother had been aware of all the nights I’d lain awake beside her, trying to work out the arithmetic of my blood. My eyes, nose, voice and hair had all come from her, but it was the space between my front teeth, that pauper’s share of my father, that made the sums in my head go wrong. It was a crack so small I couldn’t even spit through it, but it made Mama frown every time I smiled.

That’s not real
, I heard Mama say in my head.
A belly and a slit is all there should be. That’s all there is to a girl
.

Looking away from the figure, I noticed a doorway at the back of the room with a sign over it that read, The W
AGES OF
S
IN IS
D
EATH
. As Mr. Dink and Dr. Sadie stood talking, I went through it.

One entire wall was filled with heads covered in boils, their noses sunken, their skin crumbling and dissolving away. Model after model of infected body parts was lined up, every last one disfigured by oozing chancres.

425. Very fine dissection of the penis and bladder.

426. Healthy genital organs of the male.

427. Half-dissection of the penis and bladder of a victim of self-abuse, showing the genital organs not fully developed.

450. Early circinated syphiloderma.

451. A waxwork of C
UPID
, suffering the ravages of the French Pox. “Love is Blind.”

Gone was the beauty of Miss Gertu. All that was left was Mama’s voice and the horror that I was seeing. I stared at the suffering C
UPID
, his mouth open with fear. Tongue dry, hands shaking, I turned and ran out the door.

A belly and slit is all you have, Moth. You must fill them as best you can
.

Whistle, daughter, whistle
And you shall have a man
.
Mother, I cannot whistle
But I’ll do the best I can
.

B
efore going back to Miss Everett’s, Dr. Sadie took me to her rooms to see about the dress. She went straight to a trunk at the end of her bed and began pulling things from it—a pair of silk slippers, a couple of old tintypes, squares of half-finished needlework and a box full of letters. Finally, wrapped in the folds of a large white sheet, was the thing that she was after.

She cradled it in her arms, then she held it to her cheek, closed her eyes and smiled. “I wore this the night of my seventeenth birthday,” she said. “There was a stone fountain in the middle of my aunt Charlotte’s ballroom that had been shipped all the way from Paris, and an entire orchestra playing my favourite songs.” Holding it out to me she said, “Here, try it on.”

Its colour was deepest, emerald green, and the silk of the skirt was so soft and smooth I couldn’t stop touching it, shushing the cloth between my fingers. The bell sleeves had embroidery stitched around them, rings of flowers and hearts covering every inch from cuff to shoulder. Although it wasn’t in the current fashion, its quality was far above any of the dresses, suits or gowns Miss Everett had given me. It was elegant, yet sweet, and I couldn’t wait for it to be mine.

In the spring of 1836, Miss Helen Jewett, a wildly successful courtesan, was found murdered in her room on Thomas Street. The details of her death were gruesome—a scorned lover had taken up an axe to end the girl’s life and then burned her body in her bed. When the accused gentleman was put on trial, a swell of sentimental support rose up among the young women of the city on behalf of Miss Jewett. Girls from all walks of life donned dresses of green (the colour of Miss Jewett’s eyes) to parade in the streets outside the proceedings. For many years after Miss Jewett’s death, debutantes wore green dresses for their entrance into society—most of them not knowing the reason why.

But when Dr. Sadie helped me lift it over my head to slip it on, it didn’t fit. Too long and too loose, the tapered pleats of the neck fell off one shoulder, the cloth drooping across my chest. I tried to gather the fabric tight at my sides to make the gown stay in place, and insisted, “It’s perfect.”

Dr. Sadie just grinned at me. “Don’t worry, I can fit it to you.” She took my hand and helped me to stand on top of the trunk. Bringing out a sewing basket, she put pins between her lips, a thimble on her thumb, and set to work.

I watched my reflection in the dark of the window as she pinned the dress around me. Admiring myself, I held my hands up to my heart, just like the girl in the lodging house ladies’ broadsheet I’d kept hidden in my crate on the roof on Chrystie Street.

Tugging at a sleeve, Dr. Sadie said, “Hold still.”

I wasn’t used to such thoughtful attention. Staring down at Dr. Sadie, I couldn’t help but wonder what was in this for her. What did she want of me? Mrs. Wentworth, Miss Everett, even Mama had never given me anything without expecting something in return. Mrs. Riordan was the only person I’d ever known to have a selfless heart. I figured the world simply couldn’t afford to hold another woman like her in it. If I told Mr. Dink about Mrs. Riordan, he’d surely fetch her from Chrystie Street and put her on display.

“Did you dance in it?” I asked, wondering what secrets the dress might hold.

“Of course,” she answered. “The more a girl dances in a dress, the more luck it brings.”

“Do you think there’s any luck left in this one?”

Nipping the shoulders up, pinning one side and then the other, she looked at me and said, “Yes, I’d say there’s plenty.”

That’s good
, I thought.
I’ll need it
.

Honest and horrible all at once, those cankered, frightful models in the museum had held more than their share of truth about men. Even the parts of a gentleman shown in health looked strange to me, and I shuddered when I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a man’s body naked and close to mine.

“What’s it like to have relations with a gentleman?” I asked Dr. Sadie, daring to stutter out the question I’d had on my mind since we left the place.

Not looking up, she replied, “Surely Miss Everett’s explained it to you, hasn’t she?”

She hadn’t, and I wasn’t certain she ever would. I’d heard the sounds of Rose with the Chief of Detectives and spied Mama in her bed with Mr. Cowan, but those occasions, as real and shocking as they’d been, hadn’t made things any clearer to me.

I’d never seen a wedding band or any rings on Dr. Sadie’s fingers, but I assumed her profession didn’t allow her to wear them. I couldn’t tell if she’d ever been someone’s wife or not. Like the dress, I guessed she had plenty of secrets.

“Is it always ugly, loud or awful?” I begged. “I want to know the truth.”

Sighing, she motioned for me to turn so she could begin to pin one of the cuffs. “I certainly hope not.”

“You don’t know?”

“I can tell you of love, but outside of what’s in my head from physiology texts, I’m afraid I know nothing of the other.”

“You’ve never been married?”

“No.”

“But you’ve been in love?”

“Yes.”

“Are you still?”

“It’s a difficult situation,” she answered, closing her eyes for a moment as she worked to find the right words to say. “My choice of occupation is an embarrassment to my family. If I were to follow my heart in love as well, I’d wound them even more.”

How had her being a doctor, as rare and strange a thing as it was for a woman, caused anyone any harm? As far as her being in love was concerned, I found it something of a relief to know that even the heart of a fine, educated woman could have trouble getting what it wanted.

“So you love him, even now?” I asked.

She looked up at me with sad eyes, colour fading from her cheeks. With great regret in her voice, she answered, “Yes.”

By the time she’d finished making her tucks and darts, the dress clung to my skin like it was made for me. With proper petticoats and a modest hoop, it hid my too-small breasts, my memories of Mama and Mrs. Wentworth, and my worries over a man I was yet to meet.

Female physicians learn to suture in much the same way young girls learn to sew. We sit together in a circle, looking over each other’s work, vying for the straightest, most pleasing stitch. There is friendship, of course, but competition too, and a shared pride in knowing that this aspect of medicine, so vital to the care of wounds, is best executed by nimble, feminine hands. Many a face in the slums of Manhattan has been made right by “women’s work.”

Along with the dress, as it turned out, I was to wear a pair of angel’s wings. They came from Mr. Dink, who said they’d appeared one morning, dangling from the museum’s awning.