“I’m afraid that’s my cue, dear ladies,” Mr. Dink said. “Miss Everett, Miss Creaghan, it’s been a pleasure.” He bowed to them. “Miss Fen-wick,” he said, lingering on my name and grinning. “I do hope we’ll meet again someday soon.”
As soon as he was gone, Miss Everett was at my side. “Well done,” she said, as if my fall had never happened. Adjusting the back of my skirt where my train was still slightly askew, she took my arm to help guide me along.
Alice whispered in my other ear, “He liked you so well, I thought he might start purring like a cat.”
As Cadet seated us again in our box, a group of minstrel singers performed a medley of songs in front of the curtain. Then Mr. Dink came out to announce the final act, the Ladies of the Tableaux Vivants. At first he spoke in the same boastful manner he had used to introduce all the earlier performers, but when he came to Miss Suzie Lowe, the tableau’s premiere artiste, his voice became tender and reverent.
“Your heart will soar when you see her,” he promised. “You’ll be amazed.”
As the curtain opened, there she was, naked and glorious, perched above the six other ladies in the tableau. She had one hand arched gracefully over her head and a knee turned gently to hide the curls between her legs.
The women stayed frozen for endless moments, as if a painter had captured them there. They were, to a one, perfect and lily-white, put there for us to stare at and think about and want. Miss Lowe was by far the loveliest, her chestnut hair flowing down to her hips, her mouth set in a perfect bow. Turning Rose’s glasses to the side of the stage, I spied Mr. Dink watching her, nodding slowly, his lips parted, as if to say, Yes, oh yes. Looking back to Miss Lowe, I could’ve sworn I saw her smile, as if to say, Perhaps.
As the lights and scene changed, the women transformed themselves into new paintings, new pictures. They became goddesses, then swans, then angels, then saints. Each time they moved to a different pose, the music would swell and the crowd would shower them with applause. The more they changed, the greater the audience’s appreciation. I sat with my hands to my heart, longing to be like them, to move with absolute surety, to change into whatever I wished.
Sometimes, for a moment, everything is just as you need it to be. The memories of such moments live in the heart, waiting for the time you need to think on them, if only to remind yourself that for a short while, everything had been fine, and might be so again. I didn’t have many memories like that—Mama tying her scarf around her head, my father tipping his hat before he walked away, Miss Keteltas’ birds bowing and cooing to each other, Mrs. Wentworth’s bracelet warm against my skin, the taste of sugary cake on my tongue in Miss Everett’s parlour, the feel of Cadet’s lips on mine, wet and sweet. No matter what might happen or what fate Miss Everett had in store for me, I now had the image of Miss Suzie Lowe to place alongside them. She would remind me that I was a girl who longed for things, a girl who wanted to become something more than she was seen to be.
21. Shall I soon be courted?
22. The gentleman that I am so glad to see, does he think of me?
23. Am I still thought a child?
24. Is his heart as affectionate as mine?
25. What must I do to please him?
26. Ought I answer the first letter?
27. What will happen if I go to the appointed meeting?
—from The Ancient and Modern Ladies’ Oracle
by Mr. Cornelius Agrippa
(Infallible Prophet of the Male Sex)
When I lay in bed that night, even the vision of Miss Susie Lowe couldn’t stop me from tossing and turning, and reliving the moment when I’d tripped and landed at the feet of all those gentlemen and their ladies.
Alice whispered to me in the dark, “Ada, are you all right?”
“Yes,” I answered. “I’m fine.”
“No you’re not.”
I went silent, hoping she’d leave well enough alone.
“You’re not still fretting over your fall, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, stop it. Miss Everett forgave you as soon as Mr. Dink appeared, I could tell.
Besides, you’re the prettiest girl here by far. She’d be foolish to put you out over one tiny stumble.”
“I’m not the prettiest.”
“According to Rose you are. I heard her tell Miss Everett so, just yesterday. Mae heard her too—didn’t you, Mae?”
Mae was sleeping like the dead.
“I know you wanted to help,” I whispered to Alice, who was truly the sweetest-natured of us all. “Thank you.”
“The gentleman who came to your aid was quite handsome,” she said. “I believe he would have introduced himself had his lady companion not beckoned to him from across the room.”
I wished it had been Cadet coming to my rescue instead, his hands wrapped around my waist, his breath warm on my neck. I knew such a thing would never happen, though, as it seemed he had no intention of ever looking at me again.
“Good night, Alice,” I said.
“Good night, Ada.”
Miss Everett came to my bedside the next morning and said, “Wear your dress that’s meant for receiving visitors today. There’s a gentleman who wishes to meet you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, wishing I could pull the quilt over my head and go back to sleep. After what had happened at the theatre, I couldn’t see how Miss Everett would think I was ready to meet with a gentleman in private, but I wasn’t about to question her orders—having tea with a man in the parlour was far better than being put out on the street.
When I got to the drawing room, Mr. Dink was there, sitting in one of Miss Everett’s high-backed velvet chairs with a sturdy-looking wooden box at his feet. As I entered, he stood up from his chair and stepped onto the box to greet me.
“Miss Fenwick,” he said, presenting me with a bouquet of scarlet roses that matched the bud tucked in his lapel. “It’s lovely to see you again.”
As I accepted the flowers, I couldn’t help but think of Mr. Dink showering Miss Everett with lilies and affection, and the way Rose had insisted it was all for the sake of good business.
“And you as well,” I replied.
Miss Everett, standing near the doorway, smiled at Mr. Dink. “Coffee or tea?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I’ve only time for business today.”
“Very well,” Miss Everett replied. “Shall we get on with it, then?” Taking a seat on the armchair opposite Mr. Dink, she motioned for me to settle myself on the couch.
I liked Mr. Dink well enough, I guessed. I supposed things could be worse.
“I’m quite impressed with you, Miss Fenwick,” he began, stroking his beard as he had in the intermission room when we met. “Your graceful figure and humble nature are simply unforgettable.”
I nodded to him, awkwardly, and the little man nodded back, grinning, then went on to explain that somewhere between the stroke of midnight and the break of dawn, it had occurred to him that our brief encounter might well lead to an arrangement of good fortune for us all.
Miss Everett was smiling now, nodding too.
I tried picturing myself with Mr. Dink—his hand on mine, his lips on my cheek—but the idea left me queasy and scared.
Bringing out a notebook from his pocket, he showed me a drawing he’d made of a well-dressed young lady standing in front of the entrance to Dink’s Museum. He had figured onto the girl’s skirt square after tiny square; a quiver’s worth of arrows pointed out from them to a sign that read CARTES DE VISITE!
“You won’t know this, my dear, but my museum also offers my patrons a bit of wonder and curiosity to take home with them—for a fair price,” he said. “Such goods include, but are not limited to, vials of genuine pharaoh dust, mummy linen scraps, the teeth of any number of vicious creatures such as shark, wolf, hyena, bear and tiger; bird’s-eye-view maps of this country’s finest cities; real imitation shrunken heads; wax renderings of the bones of the inner ear; and a wide se
lection of cartes de visite.”
“Unfortunately,” he explained, “I only have a limited amount of space in which to display such cards: a single shelf behind the counter on which to fit one hundred generals, Indian chiefs, actresses, sideshow performers, and circus stars. My patrons often pass them over for other fare, or worse yet, they leave the shop without purchasing anything at all. This,” he declared, “is an opportunity lost.
“The wealthiest tobacconists in the city always have a pretty shopgirl on hand to assist their customers. Hot-corn girls, although nowhere close to your station and manners, Miss Fenwick, tend to be comely young ladies overall. I could go on about the array of fresh faces behind every businessman’s success in this town, but suffice it to say, gentlemen are far more eager to part with their money when a beautiful girl is involved.”
As if he were about to bestow the title of princess or duchess or baroness upon me, he concluded, “To put it boldly and sincerely, I’d like you, Miss Fenwick, to be New York’s first and only cartes de visite girl—”
“It’s to be a limited engagement, of course,” Miss Everett interrupted. “Until you’ve gotten your footing, so to speak, in the company of gentlemen.”
Mr. Dink’s proposition was as follows: each afternoon I was to stand in the entrance hall next to his curiosity shop and model cartes de visite for his patrons’ viewing pleasure. Since all the museum-goers were men, I would have to be careful to be friendly with the customers, but not overly so, engaging them in conversation about the personages featured on the cards, the gentlemen’s personal preferences in collecting them, and the weather. The men would choose the cards they wanted and purchase them from the shopkeeper. No money would pass through my hands, as my task was simply to entice.
The proposal came as a great relief. I wondered if it might even mean a chance for me to get out of my Sunday duties in the parlour. Afraid to put the question to Miss Everett, I looked to Mr. Dink and asked, “Would I be needed Sundays as well?”
“Of course,” he answered with a smile. “It’s our busiest day of the week.”
After a round of yeses and handshaking, Mr. Dink left the house.
Then Miss Everett took me aside and said, “Not to worry, Ada. More men than I can fit in a month of Sundays in the parlour will see you on display at Mr. Dink’s.”
At breakfast the next morning, Miss Everett told me that I was to go to Mr. Dink’s place of business to be fitted for the dress I’d wear as his cartes de visite girl.
“Will Cadet be escorting me?” I asked, thinking I could get him to speak at least a few words to me on our way there and back.
“He’s too busy,” Miss Everett replied. “But don’t fret. Dr. Sadie has agreed to escort you to and from the museum. She’s been called to see to the well-being of one of Mr. Dink’s players.”
Alice, trying her best not to show any jealousy over my new position, wished me luck on my way out the door. “You’re to tell me all when you return,” she said.
“I will. I promise.”
I hadn’t told her that Miss Everett had relieved me from my Sunday duties in the parlour. No matter how strong our friendship, I knew she’d find it unfair, and I couldn’t help but feel guilty.
The museum wasn’t yet open when Dr. Sadie and I arrived. Leading me through a little side door at the back of the theatre, she turned a bell in another small wooden door and waited for an answer.
Before long, Mr. Dink opened up to us. “Miss Fenwick,” he said, greeting me with a broad smile. Then, taking Dr. Sadie’s hand in his, he said, “My dear doctress, it’s so good of you to come on such short notice.”
“Anything for you, Mr. Dink,” she said, blushing.
It was strange to see her face turning pink at Mr. Dink’s kindness, her eyes bright with their conversation. I’d come to think of Dr. Sadie as a woman who was, above all else, strong and sure of herself, immune to all weaknesses, struggles and charms.
“You know the way,” Mr. Dink said, pointing to a stairway that led beneath the building.
“Of course,” Dr. Sadie replied.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” He bowed to both of us and took his leave.
Beneath the Palace of Illusions was an enormous den of rooms that seemed to have no end. This, Dr. Sadie said, was where the costumes for Mr. Dink’s players were kept. Lights shone all along the stairway that led down to the vault, and as I descended into a world of flounces, frocks and magician’s cloaks, I was smitten with the place.
We were soon met by a small, white-haired young woman whose pale skin glowed almost blue in the gaslight. I recognized her as the same lady who had assisted Mr. Dink’s illusionist.
“Dr. Sadie,” she said, smiling. “You look well.”
“As do you,” the doctor replied.
“And this must be Mr. Dink’s little cartes de visite girl?” she asked.
“Indeed she is.”
Turning to me, Dr. Sadie said, “Miss Fenwick, I give you the wise and all-seeing Miss Sylvia LeMar, the best fortune teller in all the boroughs.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said.
“Of course you are,” she replied.
As she and Dr. Sadie chatted, I reached to touch a garment on one of the many racks that filled the room.
“No touching,” Miss LeMar scolded, without even looking at me. “No, no, no.”
Just as I pulled my hand away, a second woman popped out from between the costumes, causing both Dr. Sadie and me to gasp in surprise.
“Good day,” she cooed, peeking at us over her spread fan. Her dress sported several rows of ruffles that matched a spray of bright-coloured feathers in her hair. Snapping the fan shut, she revealed the whole of her face. One side was delicate and smooth like a lady’s, the other half coarse and bearded like a man’s.
“Oh!” I exclaimed.
In a deep, grumbling voice, she asked, “What’s the matter, sweetheart, don’t you like me anymore?” Batting her eyes, she tugged on the curl of her one-sided moustache and laughed.
Dr. Sadie laughed too. “Oh, Miss Eva, you’re a naughty one.”
I couldn’t help but stare at her, wondering how many times she’d made a man’s heart race while his belly turned, and just how much she’d enjoyed it.
“Miss Eva’s an amazing sword swallower,” Dr. Sadie said after their laughter had died away. “She and Miss LeMar are seamstresses by day and stars in the spectacles Mr. Dink puts on in his theatre by night.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be starring in the show anytime soon,” Miss Eva complained, putting her hand to her neck. “I’ve got a terrible case of sword throat.”
“How long has it been bothering you?”
“Three days,” she moaned.
“Have you done anything different that might have caused it?”
Miss Eva stopped to think.
“She’s been putting a dead soldier’s sabre down her throat,” Miss LeMar said, shaking her head. “I’ve told her to get rid of it. It’s cursed.”
Ignoring Miss LeMar, Miss Eva answered, “I’ve been adding more swords lately. I’d hoped to do seven at once by the end of the month.”
Dr. Sadie frowned. “I see,” she said. “Perhaps a little less ambition is in order,” she suggested. “Along with hot tea with lemon and honey, and a week’s rest.”
“How about two days’ rest?” Miss Eva wheedled. “Mr. Dink’s got me on for Friday and Saturday nights.”
“Three days, and I’ll speak with Mr. Dink on your behalf.”
While the doctor and Miss Eva were negotiating, Miss LeMar had gone about the task of searching for a dress that might suit me for my job. Reappearing from the racks, she brought out a sleek black dress with long sleeves and a high neck.
“Too plain,” Miss Eva sighed, rolling her eyes with disapproval.
“You’ve no sense of propriety,” Miss LeMar retorted, before disappearing again into a sea of silk and tulle.
The next dress had a large hoop skirt c
overed with bows.
“That one makes me sad,” Miss Eva complained. “I cannot begin to tell you how much I detest it.”
“You’re impossible!” Miss LeMar cried.
“That dress is impossible …”
While the two women bickered, Mr. Dink arrived to check on my progress. Pulling out his notebook to show Dr. Sadie his sketch of the cartes de visite girl, he told her of his grand plans for me and his picture cards.
Staring at the sketch, considering, she leaned toward him to confide, “I think I have the perfect dress.”
“And you’re willing to lend it to the girl?” he asked.
“It’s hers,” Dr. Sadie replied.
We left Miss LeMar and Miss Eva to their argument, and followed Mr. Dink into a long corridor that stretched from a doorway in the back of the costume storeroom.
“Do you have time to see my latest acquisition?” he asked Dr. Sadie.
Her eyes grew wide with excitement. “It’s arrived?”
“Oh yes.” He grinned. “Miss Gertu is here.”
Dr. Sadie fell in behind Mr. Dink, and I tagged along after the two of them through a series of tunnels that wound underneath the building and up to the main floor.
The museum was filled with glass cases and cabinets, stacked from floor to ceiling. Taxidermy specimens, arranged on stands with gilt-edged cards attached, were displayed in every corner—a golden eagle with its wings spread wide, a black jungle cat from Peru, a ferocious bear standing on its hind legs, and a brown-feathered chicken with four legs and three wings. Against the far wall was a cage containing a fat, lazy-looking snake. The creature, still very much alive, had reportedly devoured two chickens, a dog, a cat and a ten-month-old child in the space of one day.
126. Very fine dissection of the foot.
127–129. Brains of children—two, four and six months.
130. Monster child born in Bleecker Street; was exhibited in Broadway for twelve months; it lived fourteen months.
Most of Mr. Dink’s curiosities seemed oddly familiar to me, bringing to mind things that had haunted the courtyards and curbs of Chrystie Street. Dead cats with their bellies blown open from rot. Jars of pickled somethings gone bad with the heat. Pensioner Pete’s hero’s stumps, shiny and covered with sores. The far-off stare of a child so thirsty she’s about to drop. The whole slum had been one endless cabinet of horrors, only we had the smells and sounds of misery to go along with the sights.