The Virgin Cure

  “Would you like me to read your palm first?”

  “Later, my dear girl,” he said. Dipping his fingers in the waiting tub, he flicked several droplets onto the water’s surface. “For now, you’re to undress me, then bathe me, then take me to bed. Understand?”

  Nervous, I nodded.

  “I’d like you to keep your clothes on,” he instructed with a smile. Then gazing up and down the length of me he asked, “Are those pantaloons under your skirt?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d prefer it if you removed them.”

  I started to go behind the dressing screen to take them off, but he stopped me. “Lift up your skirt and get rid of them here, please. I want to see you do it.”

  Fumbling with the ties of my pantaloons, I finally got them loose and let them fall to the floor.

  “Show me your front,” he ordered. And so I lifted my skirt. After taking a long look at me without his eyes ever meeting mine, he said, “Now turn around and show me your backside, sweet Gypsy.”

  I did, shamed and frightened despite my vows not to be, and even though he showed no signs of intending to be rough or mean.

  Loosening the silk tie around his collar, he gestured for me to undress him. Rather than bearing the clean, fresh scent he’d had during our meetings in the parlour, he smelled of cigars and liquor. As I slipped his jacket from his shoulders and began to unbutton his waistcoat, I thought of the attention and care I’d shown his wife while I lived under his roof. I tried to be confident with my touch, but when I got to his trousers my hands were shaking.

  “Go on,” he coaxed. “It doesn’t bite.”

  Cadet will be outside the door.

  Trousers at his feet, facing me with his naked body, he took my hand and put it on his cock. I wanted to pull away, but knew he wouldn’t allow it. Kneading himself with my hand under his, what seemed soft and harmless at first soon changed into something quite different. The thought of having that thing, that Roger, pecker, dick, rod, whatever anyone chose to call it, inside me made no sense, even if I could convince myself I was willing.

  “No one’s had you before, my sweet?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

  “No,” I said, and he let me take back my hand. “Perhaps you’re ready for your bath?” Moving towards the tub, I wished I was less afraid. “I wouldn’t want the water to get cold.”

  “Of course,” he said, taking my cue and stepping into the tub.

  I washed every inch of him, thinking, yet another Wentworth under my sponge. He stared at me, much as his wife once had, looking at my face, my shoulders, my breasts as I worked. I wasn’t sure, now, which one of them, husband or wife, I feared more. I went slowly, trying, as Dr. Sadie had suggested, to get a good look at him. I squeezed the sponge out time and again, over his neck, his chest, his back.

  At last he grew impatient. “That’s enough. Go to the bed, dear girl. Lie on your back,” he ordered as he rose from the bath and dried himself with the large white towel I’d set on a chair.

  I did as I was told.

  “Spread your legs, little Gypsy,” he said, and lay down beside me, pulling up my skirt and putting a hand between my thighs. He never put his lips to mine or even tried to steal a kiss. All his effort, instead, went into pushing his fingers as far inside me as they would go.

  Holding my breath against the pain, I thought of what Rose had told me to think about the first time I lay down with a man.

  You must make duty seem as easy as desire.

  “You’re good and tight,” he said with a grin. “I see you haven’t lied.” Then he rolled on top of me, using one knee to push my legs farther apart.

  I tensed and put my hands on his shoulders in an effort to slow him down, but it was no use—he was stronger than me by far.

  “No …” I begged.

  Grabbing my wrists and holding my arms down, he stared into my eyes and smiled. Then, in an instant, he was forcing himself inside me, grunting as he pushed.

  Racked with pain, I turned my head, just as Mama had done with Mr. Cowan. I closed my eyes, squinting back the tears.

  When he was finished, he got up from the bed, wiped himself down and dressed without saying a word. It was just as Rose had said: It’s there and then it’s gone.

  Curled in the quilts, blood sticky between my legs, I felt the hurt of what had happened as a throbbing ache.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Fenwick,” he said, looking back to me as I lay on the bed.

  The ribbon had fallen out of my hair and was lying on the floor. He spotted it and picked it up, but rather than giving it to me, he slipped it into his pocket, yet another memory for him to keep in his desk drawer.

  “Aren’t you forgetting your fortune, Mr. Wentworth?” I managed to ask before he reached the door. He’d gotten what he wanted. It was my turn to take something from him.

  “Oh, my dear child, you don’t need to bother.”

  “No, please, I insist.”

  Giving me a polite smile, he came and sat on the edge of the bed.

  I took his hand in mine and began tracing the lines of his palm. “I see a house divided,” I began. “A large house with a troubled wife. Angels of light watch over her as she walks, they stand guard at your stairs.”

  “What are you playing at?” he said, eyes growing hard.

  Holding his hand fast, I would not stop. “A man with a scarred face lives there too. He knows your secrets.”

  Mr. Wentworth’s hand jerked, and he said, “I’m quite frightened of you now, Miss Fenwick. You must stop.”

  “I told you I have a gift. My mother was a witch. I’m bound by her blood to tell you what I see.”

  “I’ll have no more of this—”

  “Ill will is in your house, Mr. Wentworth,” I hissed. “It has cast a terrible shadow over you. Great harm will soon come to your person. You are in danger, Mr. Wentworth—”

  Grabbing my other arm he dug his fingers into my flesh. “By whose hand?” he growled. “My wife’s? Nestor’s?”

  I yanked my arm out of his grip. I stared at the marks his hand had left behind on my skin and then at him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wentworth. I’m afraid the vision is gone.”

  “You must tell me,” he begged, every trace of smugness and surety gone from his face. “It’s clear you know my fate.”

  “You’ve exhausted me, Mr. Wentworth. I can’t go on. It will have to wait until next time.”

  Swallowing hard, sweat coming to his brow, he said, “Until then, Miss Fenwick.”

  “Yes, Mr. Wentworth, until then.”

  When Dr. Sadie came to my side, I crawled into her arms and at last let myself cry. She pulled me close, but didn’t say a word.

  I’d thought becoming Miss Everett’s girl would settle everything for me. I’d thought it would make me feel like I was worth something, even if it came along with the title of “whore.” I’d thought it would make me forget Mama, and Chrystie Street, and all the fears I’d ever had—of being poor, of Mr. Cowan catching me, of not having a home. But it had done none of these things.

  Through my tears I tried to tell Dr. Sadie what I thought she’d want to hear. “I did just what you said. I looked him over as best I could. I think he was clean—”

  “Shh, stop, Moth,” she said, stroking my hair. “You needn’t say a word.”

  She could have seen to Miss Everett’s bidding and been done with me. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d thought me a foolish girl who’d just gotten what I deserved. Her kindness towards me had been constant from the start and I’d pushed it away, time and again. All my dreams of having a full belly, of sleeping in a fine, feather bed, of hearing Miss Keteltas’ birds singing in my ear, now seemed like they belonged to someone else.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, pulling a quilt around my shoulders and drying my tears with the cuff of her sleeve.

  Leaning my head on her shoulder, I began to cry again, this time thinking I might never stop.

  My belo
ved mother,

  I bring you gifts from life into death.

  Commune with me,

  make yourself known …

  The next morning, Miss Everett woke me. Regarding me dryly, she reached out a hand to touch my swollen eyes. “Tea compresses will take care of those,” she said, “along with a little more sleep. I don’t mind if you stay in bed this morning, you’ll need your rest—he’ll be calling on you again tonight.”

  “So soon?” I asked, hardly believing what I was hearing.

  “Yes, my dear. You’ve managed to please the gentleman beyond measure. He’s eager to keep you for himself.”

  Three sets of undergarments, seven pairs of stockings,

  two day dresses with petticoats, a pair of boots,

  a soft bustle and a corset.

  One bottle of Circassian hair oil—large.

  One pen, one bottle of ink, two packets of paper, and a five-cent stamp.

  One silk walking suit, with matching hat, gloves and boots.

  Two evening gowns—one with a train, one without …

  “Does that mean my debts are paid?”

  “Close to it, I’d say, perhaps one dress shy, but I’ll gladly gift it to you.” Turning to me on her way out the door, she said, “The room is yours.”

  Catching sight of myself in the many mirrors on Rose’s wall, I felt the urge to break them all. She was a perfect, beautiful whore in every sense but I was not. No matter how hard I tried, I knew it could never be that easy and right for me.

  “Why did you sell me away, Mama?” I asked, calling my mother’s ghost. “Why didn’t you love me?”

  I remembered Mama at her table, glass sliding under her fingers, messages from spirits hissing out between her lips. Taking a sheet of paper from my dressing table, I scrawled inky, dark letters across the page. I wanted Mama’s spirit to crawl into my hands and spell out a message for me.

  I picked up a penny that must’ve fallen out of Mr. Wentworth’s pocket and placed it in the centre of the page. Putting my finger lightly on it, I waited for her to make it move.

  Come to me, Mama. Make yourself known.

  I made several attempts to draw her spirit near, but I didn’t sense a thing. Moving the penny across the paper on my own, I spelled out, I-k-n-o-w-w-h-a-t-y-o-u-d-i-d.

  By my will or Mama’s ghost, the penny at last began to move on its own, tracing out the letters M-o-t-h-w-a-n-t-s-t-o-r-u-n-a-w-a-y.

  I got dressed in my lilac walking suit, my favourite of all the clothes Miss Everett had given me. I took a pillowcase off one of the pillows on the bed and pushed my belongings into it—a half-empty bottle of hair oil, the brush and comb Rose had given me, stockings and a clean petticoat, my collection of picture cards, and my dear Miss Sweet. Leaving the rest of the dresses and gowns behind, I headed for the door.

  “Ada?” Miss Everett called to me from down the hall. “Where are you going?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Cadet was standing at his post. He took my arm and held it fast.

  Praying he’d take pity on me, I whispered, “Please, let me go.”

  “Make it seem a struggle,” he whispered back.

  As Miss Everett came down the long corridor towards us, I worked to get out of his grasp, wondering if he really meant to keep me from going.

  “Give me a kick,” he said.

  I cracked his shin with the toe of my boot, and he let go of me.

  “I’m sorry,” I called, before shoving through the front door. I raced down the steps and broke into a run. I ran all the way to Second Avenue.

  Dr. Sadie told me to make myself at home.

  “Thank you,” I said, hoping I could keep myself from starting to cry again.

  There was snow that evening and church bells rang from down the street. “It’s New Year’s Eve,” Dr. Sadie said as I stood at the window, watching revellers below get an early start. The holiday had never been anything special when I lived with Mama, but the week after New Year’s was her favourite time of year. She did some of her best business then, women calling on her in hopes that she could peer into the coming months to see what was in store for them. She found wealth for nearly every soul inside her crystal ball. Holding out her hand to receive her share, she’d say, “A Gypsy’s blessing to you and a very happy New Year too.”

  After we’d eaten a meal of meat pies and stewed apples, Dr. Sadie went to where my pillowcase was sitting and asked, “Have you things to put away?”

  I nodded. “I suppose.”

  She didn’t bother to ask how long I might be staying or what I planned to do next. She simply opened the trunk at the end of her bed and said, “You can put your things in here for now.”

  The Circassian Beauty is a creation of her own making. Rinsing her hair with copious amounts of beer, she lets the frothy liquid dry in her tresses and then combs it into the messy, unkempt style that is the hallmark of her appearance.

  Tossing aside her given name (which is often as simple as her origins) she replaces it with a moniker such as Zoe, or Zelda, or some other name more fitting for a woman of myth, magic and wonder.

  Peering inside the trunk I saw the dress she’d given me to wear at Mr. Dink’s. I’d made a practice of leaving it at the museum each day, as it had been too difficult a task to take the cards on and off of it. Miss Everett had never liked the looks of the dress. She said it was out of fashion and that she didn’t approve of me wearing it on the street.

  “I’m glad it’s here,” I told Dr. Sadie, stroking the soft folds.

  “Mr. Dink returned it to me a little while ago.” she said. “He was terribly sad when Miss Everett sent word you wouldn’t be coming back to the museum.”

  I’d often wondered if he really meant what he’d said about taking me on as one of his own. I couldn’t imagine that he’d have me now that I’d actually become a whore. Even if he was willing to take me back, after what had happened with Mr. Wentworth I wasn’t sure I could stand there each day, with so many men near to me.

  “He’s a thoughtful man,” I told Dr. Sadie.

  “One of the best I’ve ever known,” she agreed.

  Taking the picture cards one by one from the bottom of my pillowcase, I laid them on top of the dress. When I got to the Circassian Beauty, I stared at the card, wondering if the woman was as strong and defiant as she seemed.

  Curly locks, Curly locks,

  Will you be mine?

  You shall not wash dishes

  Nor yet feed the swine;

  But sit on a cushion

  And sew a fine seam,

  And feed upon strawberries,

  Sugar and cream.

  For weeks I did little but sit by myself and try to forget. I slept each night in a cot Dr. Sadie had borrowed from the infirmary and set close to her own bed. She cooked simple meals for us—soup and bread, eggs and sausage, porridge with milk and honey.

  My body healed where Mr. Wentworth’s lust had made me bleed and where he’d dug his fingers into my arms. My spirit, however, was slow to mend, and my memories were bleak. Some small consolation came from finding he hadn’t left me with any illness or disease.

  “You’re a good, beautiful girl,” Dr. Sadie said time and again. “A girl with much promise.”

  She made mention of a school nearby where I could take lessons in arithmetic, literature and penmanship, but I told her I wasn’t interested.

  “I understand,” she said as she mended the string on one of her aprons, letting the idea fade into the quiet of the evening.

  Some days I went with her on her rounds, but most days I didn’t. When she asked if I’d like to pay a visit to Miss Tully, I declined. I knew it was wrong of me, but I couldn’t bring myself to go with her.

  “I’ll be home soon,” she said, and then left me to mind the fire.

  I wondered how she could be so patient with me. Sitting there alone, I also wondered, as I had many times in the past days and weeks, why Miss Everett hadn’t come to Dr. Sadie’s door
and insisted on taking me back. Dr. Sadie had told me that I was safe with her and that I would never have to see Miss Everett again, but in all the times she’d reassured me, she’d never bothered to explain why she was so certain of it.

  After Dr. Sadie changed the calendar on her wall to a bright, unmarked FEBRUARY 1872, I decided I would go to see Mr. Dink. Worried that I had overstayed my welcome in the good doctor’s home, I wanted to speak with him about gaining a position at the museum, perhaps assisting Miss LeMar and Miss Eva with the costumes in the rooms under the theatre. Even with Mr. Dink watching over me, I didn’t want to risk Mr. Wentworth seeing me there.

  “Do you think he’ll have me?” I asked Dr. Sadie, hoping she might put in a good word on my behalf.

  “I do,” she said. “But I’d like you to let me dress you for the occasion.”

  Thinking my walking suit better than any other choice she might have in mind, I said, “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Do you trust me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  As soon as I’d given her my reply, she sat down at her desk to pen a letter, sending word to Miss LeMar and Miss Eva Ivan to ask if the two ladies might be willing to “assist a young girl in making a bit of magic.”

  “Two thousand dollars,” I said, looking across the table at Mr. Dink.

  Deep in thought, he stroked his chin.

  I was about to take it back and tell him he could make me an offer instead, but Miss LeMar, who was sitting to my right, gave me a stern look as if to say hold your ground. Miss Eva, who was on my left, did the same.

  My costume was made from fine, embroidered silk. The skirt had several rows of ruffles, and I wore a robe that went all the way down to the floor. The sideshow ladies had used beer to fashion my already unruly hair into the full mane of a “moss-haired girl.” I was now a Circassian Beauty.

  “Seventeen hundred,” Mr. Dink countered.

  “That’s an insult,” Miss Eva said, crossing her arms. Miss LeMar whispered, “Tell him you’ll go to Barnum.”