The Virgin Cure (10 page)

“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

M
rs. 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.”