The Virgin Cure (42 page)

In 1854 Dr. Elizabeth Blackwell, founder of the New York Infirmary for Women and Children, went out to Randall’s Island and adopted a young girl named Katherine “Kitty” Barry. “When I took her to live with me, she was about seven and a half years old. I desperately needed the change of thought she compelled me to give her. It was a dark time, and she did me good. Her genial, loyal Irish temperament suited me.”

“I know what’s fair and right isn’t the same for everyone,” she continued. “And compared to the many other fates a girl in your circumstances might meet, what Miss Everett has offered you must seem better by far. But after everything that’s happened with Alice, I needed to put this to you, to offer my assistance once more. I can’t keep every girl from the terrible, dark things that happen in the city, but I could help you, I could see that you lead a happy, more forgiving life—”

“I can’t,” I said, stopping her from going on. “Miss Everett has made an agreement for me.”

“I see,” she said, frowning.

Looking to comfort her in some small way, I said, “It’s my best chance.”

“I hope it is, Moth,” she replied. “I truly hope it is.”

December 27, 1871

I have put poor Alice Creaghan in the Charity Hospital on Blackwell’s Island. There are more young girls there, in her same condition, than I dared imagine. Few doctors or hospitals will care for unmarried and fallen women, no matter their malady, and the island was the only place I could find for her.

It is sickening to find that with this disease, this great pretender, most physicians of note still swear it is an illness that only dwells among the morally corrupt. Girls from polite homes, bearing every symptom, are hidden away, their persecution never mentioned. Their parents point fingers at one another behind closed doors, but in the end, they settle on a story of “bad blood” that was passed on from some wayward relative through the family tree. Science be damned, social standing preserved.

Miss Everett was no less offensive in the way she handled the situation. When I suggested we should go to the police over it, she argued it would do no good. “Cadet took care of it in his own way.”

I asked her what good is it for her to pay for police protection and to cater to the Chief of Detectives if they can’t provide assistance when she most needs it, but she was adamant in her refusal. “The father of the young man in question is a valued client. It wouldn’t do for me to go after his son.”

“This happens every day, all over the city. It needs to be stopped.”

“It was a regrettable incident. We must leave it at that.”

Today I had the notion that I might still be able to convince Moth to leave Miss Everett’s house. She refused me yet again and I fear there’s nothing more I can do. In a desperate attempt, I went straight to Miss Everett and demanded to know what it would cost to buy the girl myself.

“You can’t afford her.”

“How much?”

“It’s not just her first time you’d be paying for, but the entire life of a whore.”

It was one of the few times I’ve regretted how far I’ve fallen out with my family. There is money enough in my mother’s jewellery box alone to buy Moth a thousand times over, yet I know if I went to her on the girl’s behalf she’d refuse to hear me out. Nothing upsets her more than talk of poverty and prostitutes.

I have informed Miss Everett that I will be excusing myself from her house once Miss Fenwick has gone through her first encounter. I’d hoped the threat of my departure might change her mind about the girl, but it did not. She ended our conversation with a curt “So be it.”

On the night in question, I will pick up the pieces for Moth as best I can. I will once again extend an open invitation to her, telling her that she may come to me whenever she may need to, but as for Miss Everett and the rest of the house, I am finished.

S.F.

For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given
,
Warranted virgin. Beauty’s brightest colours
Had decked her out in all the hues of heaven
.
Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers
,
Who bade on till the hundreds reached the eleven
,
But when the offer went beyond, they knew
’Twas for the Sultan and at once withdrew
.

—Don Juan
, canto IV, verse 114, Byron

A
pair of sisters moved into the quarters upstairs, Fannie and Jane Byrne from Boston. They’d been sent to Miss Everett by one of her former girls, a Miss Nadine Bix. Having started a house of her own in Boston’s North End, Miss Bix had requested Miss Everett train the Byrne sisters up to be proper whores for her. Miss Everett was to receive the bounty from selling their maidenhood and Miss Bix and the Byrne sisters would then reap the rewards of their having had a thorough education.

The day Mr. Wentworth was to make his return, Dr. Sadie came to examine the girls and to meet with me as well. “Have you any questions concerning the arrangement Miss Everett’s made for you?” she asked.

“No,” I answered, and I met her eye as steadily as I could.

“Please promise me you’ll look the man over as best you can,” she said, barely able to meet my gaze in return. “You know from Alice the signs of disease. If he shows any hint of illness or bears any indication that he’s using mercury to fight it, you must refuse him at once. Miss Everett is in agreement. Cadet will be waiting outside the door.”

“Don’t the men who come here give Miss Everett proof of their being clean?”

“You must be vigilant too,” Dr. Sadie said, reaching out to touch my wrist. “If a man is willing to pay a large sum for a girl who hasn’t been touched, then he’s certainly got enough money to pay whatever it takes to get a doctor to sign his bill of health.”

Miss Everett too had advice for me. “There’s an art to it,” she said as she readied me for the night, “especially the first time. There are rules to follow, expectations to be met, and, perhaps, if you’re lucky, enjoyment to be had. You can stumble a bit now and then, so long as you’re graceful about it—you’re young, after all. There will be time for knowing in your actions and your countenance later, your innocence is your greatest asset your first time out. He must have no reason to question it.”

Mr. Wentworth had sent a bouquet of roses earlier in the day, so I put them in a vase on the dressing table along with a brush and comb Rose had given me before she left the house. I pinned my collection of
cartes de visite
on the wall next to the mirror. After turning the quilts down, I picked up a large box that had been delivered along with the flowers and I placed it on the bed. Tucked under the twine that was tied around the package was a note.

For my Gypsy girl
.

The box contained a white chemise, a velvet hair ribbon and a skirt made from lavender-coloured gauze. The chemise had delicate gathers around the neck and when I slipped it over my head it sat gracefully on the edges of my shoulders and dipped low at my breasts. I looked at myself in the many mirrors on the wall as I tied the ribbon in my hair. While not nearly as long as it once had been, it had at last grown past my shoulders. Playing the part Mr. Wentworth desired, I would leave it down and put my combs aside for the night.

I took Mrs. Wentworth’s fan out from under my pillow and spread it open in front of my face. I imagined sitting with Mr. Wentworth, flicking the fan open and shut as I told him of his wife’s cruelty. “Let me tell you a story, Mr. Wentworth,” I’d begin. Then, in the middle of my tale about a poor girl held captive by a horrid woman, he’d recognize the fan, and promise to make amends and take care of me forever.

Touching the fan’s silk to my cheek, I had to admit to myself that I’d captured Mr. Wentworth by knowing when to leave the truth alone. Any justice I might gain would have to come that same way. The task of turning the tables in his house, if I ever found my way to it, would have to be done without my past being known.

He’d already chosen the order of our night from a list of services Miss Everett had presented to him. Upon his arrival I was to give him a delicate undressing, followed by a hot bath. Oil rubdowns were popular with many men, as were ticklings with feather fans. Although these things seemed to have been arranged for the gentleman’s pleasure only, Dr. Sadie had encouraged me to use them as an opportunity to get a look at Mr. Wentworth to make sure he showed no signs of disease.

Cadet grumbled as he came in carrying heated water from Mrs. Coyne’s stove. Steam rose to his face as he tipped the bucket into the copper tub. Rose had left it behind because she had a bigger, better tub waiting for her at the hotel.

“Thank you,” I said, tucking Mrs. Wentworth’s fan into my dressing table drawer.

Nodding to me, he left the room to fetch more water.

He hadn’t been the same since the night of Alice’s undoing. I’d often catch him holding a lace handkerchief that she’d given him before she’d gone away. No matter how sorry I felt for him, we’d never really been friends, at least not the sort who might lean on each other in times of trouble, so I let him go about his work and left him alone with his regrets.

The water was warm and the fire bright when Mr. Wentworth arrived. He nodded his approval when he saw I was wearing the clothes he’d sent. Setting his hat and gloves on my dressing table, he asked, “Shall we begin?”

I knew I should feel lucky that I’d not gone the way of Mae and Alice, but I was still fearful of what lay ahead. Playing to his wish to have a true Gypsy girl, I tried to put him off a bit longer. I reached out and took his hand in mine.

“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.