“I can get you out of here,” Nestor now whispered in my ear. “Just tell me when you want to go, and it’s done.”
His words made my heart race. A kindness like that would require everything I had to give. Even if he didn’t ask, I would have to offer. I thought of him holding me and stroking my hair and giving me warm, soft kisses along the nape of my neck. I’d let him call me Polly. I would never tell.
“Miss Fenwick, did you hear me?” he asked. “I’m offering my help.”
“I can’t leave,” I said, pushing away from the table. “My mama needs me to stay here.”
In the prison cell I sit,
Thinking Mother dear of you,
and our bright and happy home so far away.
And the tears they fill my eyes,
spite of all that I can do,
though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.
—from The Prisoner’s Hope, George Foot, 1864
Mrs. Wentworth’s punishments grew worse. In addition to smacking my wrists, she took to slapping me across the face, turning the large agate ring she often wore to the inside of her hand before letting loose her anger. “You need discipline,” she’d explained over my tears, “if you wish to become a perfect maid.”
Women of certain station make a point of leaving the city (preferably by the end of May) to avoid the unpleasantness of summer. Outings to Macy’s and dinners at Delmonico’s are abandoned, replaced by botany walks in the countryside and endless hands of whist. The spring of 1871 brought news of “Paris gone wild,” and many ladies’ long-planned European tours were cancelled. The unrest in France soon became an inviting (and fashionable) excuse for any change in a woman’s social calendar, bringing on stories of visits with long-lost cousins and reunions with “old friends.” Still, there were enough Baronesses (real and imagined) both in New York and elsewhere, who were only too happy to reveal the true whereabouts of any lady who was inclined to manufacture the truth.
She never went out and no one came to call. All the drapes were drawn, and every room was kept in a constant state of shadow. The only traces of sunlight I ever saw were the slanted rays that came through the skylight in the quarters that Caroline and I shared. Our view was a clueless bit of sky that told me nothing of where I was, and refused to show me anything outside of predicting the threat of rain.
Nestor hid his feelings well in Mrs. Wentworth’s presence, but it was soon clear to me that he despised her. He could hardly mention her without some tic of disdain—his leg restlessly twitching under the table, or his nose wrinkling up as if he’d just gotten too heavy a whiff of dung. He’d gone so far as to say she’d done something terrible in her husband’s eyes, but had refused to discuss the matter any further.
“She’s been an embarrassment to him.”
“What sort of embarrassment?”
“The sort that causes a gentleman to loathe even the sight of his wife.”
“Please, Nestor, go on,” I’d begged, wanting to know if Mrs. Wentworth had committed a crime worse than anything she’d done to me.
“Being an honourable man, I find her actions too coarse for conversation. To say she acted poorly is enough.”
“But …” I wanted him to tell me more.
“That is all, Miss Fenwick,” he said.
As punishment for his wife’s mysterious misbehaviour, Mr. Wentworth had demanded that she cut her summering short. She could plead sickness, or say she was visiting relatives abroad, or whatever she liked, so long as the house had the appearance of being empty for the summer. All the doors to the outside were kept locked from within and only Nestor was allowed to have the keys. “The lady is required to carry out the illusion that she has not yet returned home,” he explained. Only upon Mr. Wentworth’s arrival would Mrs. Wentworth be permitted to officially declare herself to be “at home.”
Until then, she would have to spend her days fretting and wandering through the house.
Weeks passed, and still, despite my efforts, I failed to please her. Although I’d chosen not to make anything more of Nestor’s offer to assist me, I couldn’t help but entertain thoughts of escape.
I’d sent several letters to Mama, but hadn’t gotten a reply. Her silence made me wonder if something had gone wrong. Lying awake at night I imagined her belly-up in a gutter or dizzy-headed on the roof, half gone on a bottle of Dr. Godfrey’s cordial. I longed for her to send word that she was now making ends meet, so I could walk out Mrs. Wentworth’s door, my head held high.
Dearest Mama,
I am anxious for your reply. I trust that you are well—
One night, when Mrs. Wentworth sent me to retrieve a book of sayings and quotations for her, I’d discovered a silent, dusky room hidden on the other side of a pocket door in the back of the library. Compared to the lady’s sitting room it was a small space, but its panelled walls and bearskin rug made it feel important nonetheless. The scents of stale tobacco and a hearth gone cold filled the room. I’d stumbled into Mr. Wentworth’s study.
For a brief moment, I settled myself in the chair behind his desk and clutched the ends of its arms. They were carved in the shape of an animal’s paws, a lion or tiger perhaps, so large my fingers nearly disappeared in the spaces between the wooden claws. Sliding open the drawer that was in front of me, I peered in, inspecting its contents. A few pens rolled to the edge of the drawer, out from under a scattered pile of letters and receipts. Sticking out from the mass of papers was the end of a ribbon, pink and soft and sweet. When I took it from the place where it was hiding, I found it was made from a wide band of velvet with a large bow fixed to the centre. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Wentworth ever wearing such a thing in her hair: it was made for a girl rather than a woman. Stroking it, I wondered if Mr. Wentworth had known his wife all her life, or if perhaps they’d had a child, a little girl who was now gone. Either way, the man had tucked the ribbon away for safe keeping, hidden from sight, but not forgotten. I carefully returned it to its hiding place.
Several books were stacked on the edge of Mr. Wentworth’s wide desk with a large globe sitting next to them. I put my hand to the globe’s yellowed surface and spun it around on its stand as I read the titles of the books. Tribal Peoples of the World, A Gentleman’s Companion to New York City, The Witches of New York …
A Gentleman’s Companion was a mystery. The insides of the book had been mangled and every second page was missing. Tribal Peoples was an album of cabinet cards, mostly picturing women, bare chested and frowning. A ribbon had been placed partway through the collection and its red dye had bled, leaving a mark on the tissue paper that was meant to protect the image underneath. Estelle Lavoraux was the name of the young woman beneath the thin page. Wearing a woven band across her forehead, she had a proud, confident look about her and menacing eyes. I could tell by the oily smudge at the picture’s corner that Mr. Wentworth favoured her image over the rest.
The Witches of New York was the book I’d found most intriguing. Listing addresses from Broome to Nineteenth Street, it claimed to be a reliable guide to the soothsayers of the city. I put it on the top of the stack, planning to come back for it later to search for Mama in its pages.
We impart information that is not generally known, even to old denizens of the city. We give the reader an insight into the character and doings of people whose deeds are carefully screened from public view. We describe their houses, give their locations, supply the stranger with information which he stands to need.
Not that he ever desires to visit those places.
Certainly not.
He is, we do not doubt, a member of the Bible Society, a bright shining light.”
—A Gentleman’s
Companion to New
York City, 1870
Later that evening Nestor and I were sitting at the table in the kitchen, engaged in our ritual of letter writing. I put my latest note to Mama aside for a moment and turned to him. “When will Mr. Wentworth come home?” I asked.
“Whenever it pleases him,” Nestor replied, as he smoothed another piece of paper out in front of him on the table, the second page for Polly. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” I said.
But Nestor guessed there was more to my query than I was willing to say. “Don’t put your hopes on your lady’s husband,” he warned. “It will only end in disappointment.”
My darling Polly, It won’t be long now.
Perhaps a year, at most.
Mr. Wentworth’s weary gaze staring out from his portrait had made me think I might be better off if he were here, in the flesh. I thought his homecoming might serve to pacify his wife, turning her heart soft to everyone around her, including me.
This, along with the notion that he had even a passing interest in fortune tellers brought me hope. Mama had often told those who sought counsel with her that the very act of sitting at a mystic’s table made a person more susceptible to curses and spells. “Once you open yourself up to me, you open yourself up to everything,” she’d say, before offering to part, for a fair price, with the protective charm she was wearing around her neck. “It works against everything from hexes to the evil eye.” The top drawer of her dresser was filled with an endless supply of the charms, for just such opportunities.
I’d always thought it was a bit of humbuggery on Mama’s part, done to make an extra dime, but the growing number of bruises on my arms and face had me changing my mind. I hoped, if Mr. Wentworth was a believer in things mystical and strange, that I could practise a bit of Mama’s magic to lure him home sooner rather than later. Cutting wishing dolls out of Mr. Wentworth’s stationery, I prayed Mama was right.
Late mornings Mrs. Wentworth would nearly wear out the carpet in the sitting room waiting for the post to arrive. No letters from Mr. Wentworth had come for her in all the time I’d been there, and according to Nestor, his last correspondence had left her in such a state that “we should be glad there has been nothing more.”
Nestor came to the door of the sitting room every morning at half past ten to deliver the post. Mrs. Wentworth would sort through the cards and letters one by one, anxiously searching for any word from her husband. She’d throw aside the notices of appreciation from various shopkeepers (Mr. Macy looks forward to your return, Mr. A.T. Stewart is happy to meet all your needs, Mr. Tiffany knows your heart’s desire) and file away any invitations for the upcoming season (the pleasure of your company is requested on …, a dinner is being held in honour of …, nuptials will be celebrated for …) all the while growing more and more agitated.
Two weeks after I’d fashioned my wish with paper and scissors, an envelope arrived bearing the familiar W of Mr. Wentworth’s stationery. Mrs. Wentworth turned it over several times before taking up her letter opener to slice along the edge of its flap. Her eyes widened as she unfolded the single page that was nestled inside. She read the message, mouthing the words. When she’d finished, she held the letter to her breast, then tucked it away in the top drawer of her desk.
“Two weeks, and he’ll be home,” she said, smiling.
I smiled as well, thinking there must be something to Mama’s magic after all.
Mrs. Wentworth began at once to make plans so that everything might be perfect for her husband’s return. Flowers were to be ordered, menus prepared, rooms that had been closed for months aired out and set right. “Where did you get that brandy you were so fond of last Christmas?” she asked her husband’s portrait, her brow pinched with not remembering.
Refusing to take lunch, she stayed at her desk and penned dozens of notes—orders to be carried out within the fortnight. When the clock chimed three, I thought she would decline her afternoon walk as well, but she turned to me (as she always did) and declared, “It’s time for promenade, Miss Fenwick.”
Mrs. Wentworth’s daily promenade was, of course, confined to the corridors of the house. I was to dress her in the appropriate attire at promptly three o’clock, and then, with parasol in hand and reticule dangling from her wrist, she would commence to walk.
It seemed altogether pointless to me, but Mrs. Wentworth took the ritual seriously, even going so far as to pause every few steps to look through the ceiling at the blue of an imagined sky, or to gaze past the walls into the shop windows of her memory. I followed her, pacing the hallways and up and down the stairs, taking the same tired path every day.
In appropriate weather, the proper ladies of New York engage in the tradition of taking an afternoon promenade. This, I can assure you, is quite a sight. In fine walking suits and feather-laden hats, they parade along Lady’s Mile at the prescribed orchestral gait of seventy-six beats per minute. Always andante, never allegretto. The purpose of this activity is not (as some may purport) to rejuvenate a lady’s constitution, but rather to allow her to practise setting her sights on the triumphs and inadequacies of others with discretion and ease.
At the end of the main floor hall was an enormous mirror. It spanned floor to ceiling, its gilded frame a gaudy tribute to turtledoves and fruit. Mrs. Wentworth took great care to watch herself as she approached the glass, straightening her shoulders, adjusting the angle of her parasol, raising her chin a bit in order to make a good impression on her own reflection. The day she received Mr. Wentworth’s letter, she went right up to the mirror until her nose touched the surface. When her short, laced-up breaths began to leave a foggy circle, she took a step back and resumed appraising herself. “My hem,” she said, looking down, motioning for me to fix a slight wrinkle in her skirt.
After seeing to the turn in the fabric, I got back to my feet and caught sight of myself in the mirror. My cheeks were covered with bruises, the skin around my eyes gone dark. The girl who’d peeped through the windows along Second Avenue, who’d longed to lie on her belly on an oriental rug, who’d wanted just one wink from the man with the big cigar, who’d dreamed of fine silk dresses and of lolling in Miss Keteltas’ soft feather bed, had all but disappeared.
Reaching out, Mrs. Wentworth stroked the top of my head. She ran her hand down the length of my braid, her fingers softly tugging it, counting each twist under her breath as she went. “… five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret.”
I pulled away, unable, for once, to bear her touch.
“Get back here,” she scolded, reaching again for my hair and yanking my braid. “You’ll move when I tell you to move.”
“Please let me go,” I begged.
Dropping her parasol to the floor, she took my arm in her other hand and forced me to the sitting room.
“It’s for your own good,” she told me as she took a pair of scissors from her desk and minced the blades together in front of my face. “He would have favoured you too much. No matter how many bruises I give you, I can’t stop your beauty from coming back. I swear it mends in your sleep just to torment me.”
Day by day she’d been moving towards madness. Now, it seemed, she had arrived.
Holding me tight, she sawed at my braid. “I don’t know how to manage it any other way. It’s not your fault, of course, dear girl. You’ve been the most loyal of all—”
“Don’t,” I cried. I put my hand up to try to stop her, and she stabbed my fingers with the sharp scissors, turning my hand into a throbbing, bloody mess.
“Be sweet for me, Miss Fenwick,” she cooed then, as if what she’d done hadn’t hurt me in the least. “Let me finish. Let me keep my husband.”
Soon she held the length of my hair in her hand like a prize. The ribbon I’d tied to the end of my braid that morning dangled, looking worn and shabby against the perfect folds of her dress.
Cradling my hand in the front of my skirt, I bowed my head, dizzy and sick with pain. Crimson drops spilled to the floor, a pale, yellow flower in the carpet now ruined with my blood.
Mrs. Wentworth looked first to her husband’s portrait and then to me. “He can’t be trusted,” she said, her voice shaking. Then she went to the servant’s bell and rang it over and over again, crying out, “Nestor! N
estor, come quick! I need you!”
Please, Nestor, come.
Sort the tress, which is about to be used, into lengths, tie ends firmly and quite straight with pack thread, put the hair into a small saucepan with about a pint and a half of water and a piece of soda the size of a nut, and boil it for about a quarter of an hour to twenty minutes; take it out, shake off the superfluous moisture and hang it up to dry, but not near a fire.
—from “How to Prepare Hair for Jewellery
Work,” Godey’s Lady’s Book, 1850
“Never let a stranger get hold of your hair,” Mama would scold as she’d gather up the strands that had fallen from my brush. “Powerful magic can be done against you by the person who finds it.” After collecting it all, she’d roll the hair between her palms and form it into a ratty-looking ball. Then she’d tuck the thing into the little cloth pouch she used for a hair receiver. She’d fashioned the pouch from one of my father’s handkerchiefs, sewing the square of cloth into a point and attaching a length of ribbon to the corners so she could hang it from a nail over the head of the bed.
“Remember Mrs. Deery?”
“Yes, Mama, I remember.”
“Remember what happened?”