The Virgin Cure by Ami McKay Read Free Book Online

sitting in a chair next to her tea table when I entered the room, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her mouth set in a frown. The taffeta dressing gown she was wearing rustled with her every movement, echoing her impatience. “Place the tray on the stand,” she ordered. “I want only dishes on the table.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, following her directions as best I could.
    Like every other little girl in the world, I’d often played at tea-time and again, making a watery shoosh between my lips while pouring steaming make-believe brew out of thin air, or pinching the handle of an invisible cup between my fingers as I chatted about the weather with Miss Sweet and Mama’s iron dog doorstop.
    Like Caroline with her broth, I spilled no drops, made no mistakes. I smiled and bowed and spoke softly to Mrs. Wentworth, thinking all the while that if Caroline had been there to witness my performance, her hatred for me would’ve caused a bitter stream of words at least a mile long to issue from her mouth.
    The hardest task in it all was keeping my mind on my duties while standing in the most glorious place I’d ever seen. Mama’s rooms on Chrystie Street could’ve fit inside Mrs. Wentworth’s dressing quarters three times over. There was enough space in the bedroom alone for two fainting couches, a table with three chairs, a dressing table with a large, round mirror attached, and an enormous, canopied bed, with spiralling posts that soared clear to the ceiling. Dressed in every possible shade of pink—rosebud, blush, salt-water taffy, tip-of-the-tongue—the bed was laden with pillows and blankets of quilted silk and satin.
    Embroidered velvet curtains lined the room’s tall windows, the heavy panels pulled shut against the outside world. The mantel of the fireplace was decked with a row of twinned treasures: a pair of porcelain pheasants with clocks in their bellies, two matching ginger jars, two lamps with rose-coloured globes sparkling with the steady glow of gaslight. The whole room was filled with beautiful things, every last one of them perfect and right. If Mama had known about this place, she would’ve prayed every night for it to go up in flames, just so she could tiptoe through the embers and take whatever was left behind.
    “I’ve gone to the trouble of setting out my morning attire,” Mrs. Wentworth announced after finishing her tea. “I’ll do this with my wardrobe for the rest of today, but starting tomorrow, you’ll be responsible for my toilette in its entirety. Do you understand?”
    Still staring at one of the pheasants, I wondered what it would be like to wake up one morning and find your insides ticking away.
    Mrs. Wentworth cleared her throat and repeated her question. “Do you understand?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, looking at the heap of clothing that had been carefully piled on one of the couches. I’d been able to make fair guesses with the tea, but all that tulle and lace was daunting. I wasn’t quite sure where to begin.
    “My corset,” Mrs. Wentworth ordered, taking off her dressing gown and revealing that she was already wearing pantaloons and a chemise. Lifting her arms above her head, she waited for me to fetch the thing and bring it around her body. I pushed at the stays from the sides, working to fasten the corset’s clasps up her front.
    Her breasts were huddled and heaving before I’d even tied the satin bow at the top, but when I turned to fetch the next piece of clothing, she scolded me and called me back to her. “You must tighten the laces,” she said, as she took hold of a bedpost for support.
    I went behind her and tugged at the laces one by one, working my way from top to bottom. A quiet creaking could be heard, the sound of shifting bone. I began to sweat, not knowing if the sound was human or whale, living or dead.
    “Don’t be so cautious, child,” the lady scolded. “You can go tighter, much tighter. I didn’t spend years corset training for