The Virgin Cure (37 page)

Mr. Greely had been equally eager to move things along with Alice. They’d shared tea in the parlour on several occasions, the grey-haired, red-faced, lanky gent talking loudly in Alice’s ear and telling her he’d never seen a girl so pretty or heard a voice as lovely. He sang “Oh! Susanna” to her and squeezed her leg every time he got to the part about the banjo on his knee. Although she hated his singing and his forward ways, she’d come to regard Mr. Greely as a possible answer to her prayers.

Then, in a sudden turn, she’d ended their most recent meeting abruptly, and had run up the stairs crying bitter tears, all the way to our room.

“What’s happened?” I asked, rushing to her side.

Throwing herself on her bed, she sobbed into her pillow and refused to answer.

“Did he hurt you? Are you unwell?”

My questions only served to make her wailing grow louder. Cadet soon came to the door to see what was wrong. Taking my place at the side of Alice’s bed, he knelt to put a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he said, his voice tender. “Whatever it is, it will be all right.” He took a folded handkerchief from his pocket and slipped it into her hand.

“Thank you,” she said, sitting up and looking at him with helpless eyes, tears still rolling down her cheeks. “But it’s not going to be all right. He said to me, ‘You’d better watch out, Miss Alice, I might just have to marry you.’ So as soon as he was out the door, I took the good news to Miss Everett. She just laughed in my face. She said that Mr. Greely says that to all the girls. He has no intention of marrying me or anyone else, because he already has a wife.”

Alice had pleaded with Miss Everett that she be allowed to turn Mr. Greely away in hopes of finding a better match. Miss Everett simply replied, “No, Alice. You’ve no choice in the matter.”

As Alice began to sob again, Cadet moved to sit by her side and she buried her head in his chest. He looked at me as if to say
we don’t need you here
. Putting his arm around Alice’s shoulder, he told her again, “It’s going to be all right.”

I hated that he’d given her his attention so freely. The only things my tears had ever gotten me were a wet face and a scolding from Mama. I could never be like Alice. I couldn’t match her sweetness or the graceful way she moved. Her blind devotion to all things bright and fair—even in the face of what was coming to her, to us—was beyond me. Watching her with Cadet, I was sure such ease and goodness was the sole property of girls born to true families in nice homes with both a mother and a father to adore them.

The women on the picture cards I kept hidden in my skirt at the museum didn’t seem anything like Alice, yet gentlemen asked after them repeatedly, gazing on them, speaking of them as if they knew the ladies in the flesh. Demure or defiant, coy or come-hither, they all shared the same look of knowing in their eyes. It was now their confidence I was after.

Stealing a few
cartes
from Mr. Dink’s collection for myself (Lady Godiva and the Circassian Beauty, among others), I pinned them to the wall of our room, hoping to make their power my own.

In the evenings, I’d sit at the dressing table, glancing back and forth between the cards and my reflection. I’d tilt my head, lower my eyes, and set my lips to try to match Miss Lotta Crabtree’s pout. I’d found her expression to be more provocative than the others, and with practice, I soon mastered the sly, perfect pucker of her lips. I began to rouge my cheeks each morning and dot drops of Mae’s neroli oil behind my ears. I tied the bow of my hat far to the right, like Rose, rather than making a homely, proper knot under my chin, like Alice.

I believed that everything would be easier—from standing in Mr. Dink’s museum to lying down with a man—if I could become less myself and more like the women on those cards.
Miss Ada Fenwick—beautiful, tempting, in charge of her fate
.

Cadet’s response to my efforts ended up being one more dagger in my heart. I’d breezed past him one afternoon with Alice, making sure I was close enough for him to catch the scent of my perfume. When he didn’t speak to me, I smiled and said, “Good afternoon, Cadet.”

When he didn’t respond, I repeated my greeting. “Good afternoon—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you was Mae,” he said, looking at me with a fair bit of spite.

Alice didn’t speak until after he was gone. Then she said, “I’m not sure what came over him. He’s usually quite gentlemanly.”

“I suppose,” I answered, realizing that any feelings Cadet might have had for me had been replaced by his fondness for Alice.

“Don’t you favour him anymore?” she asked.

I’d seen her take the square of cotton that Cadet had lent her the day she’d fallen apart over Mr. Greely and tuck it under her pillow. I knew she had no intention of giving it back.

“No,” I answered, taking her arm. “He’s clearly got his eyes on someone else.”

Blushing, she nodded.

Miss Everett, though, was quick to praise the change in me. “Your time with Mr. Dink has done wonders for you,” she said. Handing me a small packet tied with ribbon, she added, “Here are a few of my calling cards to carry with you to the museum. Use them with discretion.”

Miss Emma Everett
73 East Houston
Ladies’ Boarding House

She instructed me to pay special attention to the quality of a man’s suit, the shine of his shoes, the amount of wear on his hat. “The men who inhabit Mr. Dink’s lobby might be looking to buy a few mementos to remind them of their time at the museum, but they also might be looking for a girl. If a man strikes you as exceptional, give him my card. I’ll handle the rest. Mr. Dink need not be bothered with the details.”

Standing in the entrance to the museum, I pictured myself in the arms of the various gentlemen who came to my side. It didn’t take much imagination, as many of the men were bold, thinking, hoping, that I might be willing to offer more of myself to them if they asked. They called me
sweetheart
and
honey
and
darling girl
. They spoke of meeting at the concert hall or strolling in the park.

One man cheekily introduced himself to me as “Mr. Money.”

I gave him a sigh in return.

“You’re right, my dear, it’s not,” he said, feigning that I’d caught him out. Then, bringing out a fat clip of bills from his pocket, he said, “But you should know, I do have lots of it and I’d like nothing better than to spend it on a sweet little girl like you. What do you say we meet in the alley for a chat?”

“No thank you, sir,” I replied, bidding him goodbye.

Another gentleman, who introduced himself as Mr. Wilson, visited three days in a row. He was an older man, who, like Mr. Birnbaum, had kind eyes that wrinkled at the corners when he smiled. He said I reminded him of a girl he once knew whose name was Helen. “She died before I could tell her that I loved her. She met with such a terrible end. It haunts me to this day.”

Mr. Dink watched the proceedings from afar, greeting familiar patrons while keeping his eyes on me. He came to me now and again (especially when a gentleman got too close, or lingered too long) to ask if I was comfortable or if I might need to rest. “I can’t have you fainting on the floor,” he’d say, concern in his eyes. “You’ll let me know if you need anything?”

“Yes, Mr. Dink. I will.”

Miss Eva and Miss LeMar would sometimes come through the entrance hall to ask how many picture cards bearing their likenesses had been purchased that day. “You must lie to them every time,” Mr. Dink had warned. “Or I’ll be without a sword swallower or an albino, or quite possibly both. Tell them between fifteen and twenty-five, and Miss Eva’s number must never exceed Miss LeMar’s. Sylvia isn’t one to tolerate losing.”

Doing as Mr. Dink directed, I managed to keep peace between the two women. He was pleased with my efforts, and pulled me aside one day to say, “Should you ever find yourself through with Miss Everett, think of me, won’t you? I’d be more than happy to have a
cartes de visite
girl as a permanent part of the Dink family. The pay would be a mere pittance compared to what the madam can offer, but it would be a wage, nonetheless.”

I might have accepted his invitation on the spot, but visions of Miss Keteltas’ house still haunted my dreams. The light through the windows now had a voice, low and throbbing like a heart.
Keep a fire in your belly, child. This will be yours. You must find a way
.

One day, I noticed a man circling, waiting for the moment when he might get a private look at my wares. Handsomely attired in frock coat and hat, he was, by far, the wealthiest-looking gentleman I’d ever seen. What struck me most about him, though, wasn’t the quality of his attire, but his face. Although older, with more grey at his temples than when the artist had captured his likeness with oil paints and brush strokes, I recognized him in an instant. It was Mr. Wentworth.

My heart pounded at the sight of him, and with the wild notion that Mrs. Wentworth was just outside the doors, waiting for her husband to drag me through the crush of dark-suited museum-goers and out to her carriage.

Glancing around, I checked to see where Mr. Dink was in case I needed him. When I spotted him standing at the ticket counter talking to Miss Eva, I gave him a little wave. He returned the gesture with a tip of his hat.

My stomach knotted as Mr. Wentworth approached. “Have you any Lady Godivas?” he asked in a proper, measured tone.

Nestor’s voice sounded in my head.
You must hold back emotion, refuse impulse
.

Hands shaking, I reached to reveal the
cartes
in the hidden part of my skirt. “Yes, of course,” I said, hoping he couldn’t detect my anxiety.

He took his time with the cards, even taking a small magnifying glass from his pocket so he could carefully inspect each one. After gazing at the picture of Miss Suzie Lowe sitting on the back of her horse, he finally said, “She’s just what I’m looking for.”

The way he’d examined the cards brought me a great sense of relief. He was much like the other men who came to the museum. I was sure that he was there for himself and not his wife.

Remembering the album of tribal peoples I’d found in his study and the pictures of the young women who’d inhabited it, I pointed to the Circassian Beauty. “Perhaps you might also be interested in more exotic fare? The cards are two for a quarter.”

“Perhaps I would,” he said, reaching to caress the corner of the card with his thumb.

I’d looked upon his portrait so many times in the past that I found it hard not to act familiar with him or call him by his name. I’d wondered where his sweet-faced dog had got to, and if the animal’s absence had been ordered by his wife. I’d thought if he’d only been there to know me, he might have set me free himself.

After he’d chosen the Circassian Beauty too, I asked, “Anything else you’re looking for?”

“That’s all, I suppose,” he said.

It occurred to me that the magic I’d done while fashioning a charm from paper and wishes had not only brought Mr. Wentworth home, it had somehow worked to deliver him to me. Taken with such a thought, I felt I couldn’t let him get away so soon.

“Sir,” I said, reaching for his arm and saying the first thing that came to mind. “I’m terribly sorry about your dog.”

“Pardon me?” he said with a puzzled look on his face. “You must have me confused with someone else. I haven’t any dog.”

“I’m sure I’ve never seen you in my life, but I’m also certain that you had a dog—a white hound with a brown-speckled muzzle. A loyal friend, dearly missed.”

Mr. Wentworth gave a nervous chuckle as he reached into his pocket and presented me with a nickel. “An astonishing parlour trick, dear girl. I did have just such a dog.”

I refused to take the coin. “I can’t accept your money.”

Gazing at me with curiosity, he said, “I guess you’re quite an exotic creature yourself, now, aren’t you?”

Pleased with myself for holding his interest, I gave him a look that would have made Miss Lotta Crabtree blush.

“Perhaps I could walk with you?” he asked, his voice hushed. “So we might speak in private?”

I looked again for Mr. Dink. He was on the other side of the entrance hall, engaged in a conversation with the two police officers he’d hired to stand out front on Saturday nights.

Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out one of Miss Everett’s cards and handed it to him.

His eyes widened when he read what was printed on it. “Who shall I ask for when I make the arrangements?”

“Miss Fenwick,” I said, my breathing shallow, my heart beating loud in my ears.

Putting his hand to his hat, he said, “Until we meet again, Miss Fenwick.”

“Until then,” I said.

Mrs. Wentworth returned to my dreams that night, stirring my emotions into a frightening mess.
Stealing my jewels wasn’t enough for you?
she wailed as she came after me with her scissors.

Waking with a start, I imagined holding a knife to Mrs. Wentworth’s throat while her husband looked on with a smile. I held tight to her fan as I lay sweating in my bed, wondering if I’d made a terrible mistake.

There was a little maid
,
and she was afraid
That her sweetheart
would come unto her;
So she went to bed
,
and covered up her head
,
And fastened the door with a skewer
.