butter on my fingers.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, picking up a piece of shortbread by the edges and bringing it to her lips.
To my dismay, she chose to make a meal of it, nibbling at the biscuit in tiny bites, licking at my fingertips for the last of the crumbs. When she was finished, she smiled and said, “I quite like forgetting where I end and you begin.”
From then on, with her every complaint, out came the fan.
I was the one to dress her, so I was responsible for making certain it was always on her person, secure around her wrist. She’d strike me with it whenever it pleased her to do so. If I winced, or made any sound at all, she’d hit me again, twice as hard. The more attention I gave her, the more she required. I was to hold her hand until she fell asleep at night, wash every inch of her when she bathed. Turned-down sheets and pinned-up ringlets (no matter how deftly placed) never satisfied her for long. She wanted more. Without any gentle words on her part, she expected to be showered with affection. “Show your devotion, Miss Fenwick,” she’d say several times throughout the day, pointing the fan to her cheek. She had a Sybil’s sense for detecting half-heartedness, and try as I might, my attentions were never soft or sincere enough to please her. She did not hold back in showing her disappointment.
The insides of my arms grew raw, and soon became mottled in shades of yellow, green and blue. According to how many times she’d hit me the hour, the day, the week before, spidery lines of purple and red formed like lace around the edges of my bruises.
Mama had, on occasion, left a dark bruise on my ear or in the fleshy part of my arm where she’d pinched me too hard, but even at her worst, she’d never been set on hurting me like this. Every time Mrs. Wentworth came at me, I thought of Mama. I prayed she’d walk through the door and put a stop to Mrs. Wentworth’s meanness. I dreamed she’d take the woman by the hair and give her a fierce pounding—cursing, spitting and screaming, “I won’t let you treat my girl that way.”
But Mama could never know. I was tied to Mrs. Wentworth now. The wage they had agreed upon was meant to keep Mama alive. If I ran away, I feared Mrs. Wentworth would come after Mama. She’d be left with nothing—no clothes to wear, no place to sleep, no food in her belly. My bruises were a small price to pay.
Caroline still hadn’t seen fit to speak to me directly, and although Nestor had told me time and again not to worry about it, I couldn’t help wishing she’d change her mind. “Maybe Chrystie Street can get that for you,” she’d say whenever Nestor asked her to pass the pitcher of milk from across the table, not quite speaking to me, but almost. Calling out in the dark whenever she thought I was listening to her talk herself to sleep she’d grouse, “Chrystie Street should mind her own business.”
I missed the kind of talk that went on between women—over the course of an hour’s worth of chores, at the clothesline in the courtyard, on front stoops in the evening. The women of Chrystie Street were generous with their stories and their gossip, even when there was no fondness between them. Fast friends one minute, enemies the next, it made no difference to them.
Nestor did his best to make life bearable. We did not talk of Mrs. Wentworth’s cruelty or of the things she did to me behind closed doors. Instead, we spent late nights in the kitchen after Caroline had gone to sleep, raiding the larder and bragging about our “worsts”—the worst fight he’d ever been in, the worst thing I’d ever found rotting in a trash barrel.
He said he’d been raised on Old St. Nichol Street in the East End of London, a place where rats dine better than people, a place that sounded an awful lot like Chrystie Street to me. He went on to say that the only thing that had saved him from ending up in the gutter like the other St. Nichol lads was “meetin’ my
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, picking up a piece of shortbread by the edges and bringing it to her lips.
To my dismay, she chose to make a meal of it, nibbling at the biscuit in tiny bites, licking at my fingertips for the last of the crumbs. When she was finished, she smiled and said, “I quite like forgetting where I end and you begin.”
From then on, with her every complaint, out came the fan.
I was the one to dress her, so I was responsible for making certain it was always on her person, secure around her wrist. She’d strike me with it whenever it pleased her to do so. If I winced, or made any sound at all, she’d hit me again, twice as hard. The more attention I gave her, the more she required. I was to hold her hand until she fell asleep at night, wash every inch of her when she bathed. Turned-down sheets and pinned-up ringlets (no matter how deftly placed) never satisfied her for long. She wanted more. Without any gentle words on her part, she expected to be showered with affection. “Show your devotion, Miss Fenwick,” she’d say several times throughout the day, pointing the fan to her cheek. She had a Sybil’s sense for detecting half-heartedness, and try as I might, my attentions were never soft or sincere enough to please her. She did not hold back in showing her disappointment.
The insides of my arms grew raw, and soon became mottled in shades of yellow, green and blue. According to how many times she’d hit me the hour, the day, the week before, spidery lines of purple and red formed like lace around the edges of my bruises.
Mama had, on occasion, left a dark bruise on my ear or in the fleshy part of my arm where she’d pinched me too hard, but even at her worst, she’d never been set on hurting me like this. Every time Mrs. Wentworth came at me, I thought of Mama. I prayed she’d walk through the door and put a stop to Mrs. Wentworth’s meanness. I dreamed she’d take the woman by the hair and give her a fierce pounding—cursing, spitting and screaming, “I won’t let you treat my girl that way.”
But Mama could never know. I was tied to Mrs. Wentworth now. The wage they had agreed upon was meant to keep Mama alive. If I ran away, I feared Mrs. Wentworth would come after Mama. She’d be left with nothing—no clothes to wear, no place to sleep, no food in her belly. My bruises were a small price to pay.
Caroline still hadn’t seen fit to speak to me directly, and although Nestor had told me time and again not to worry about it, I couldn’t help wishing she’d change her mind. “Maybe Chrystie Street can get that for you,” she’d say whenever Nestor asked her to pass the pitcher of milk from across the table, not quite speaking to me, but almost. Calling out in the dark whenever she thought I was listening to her talk herself to sleep she’d grouse, “Chrystie Street should mind her own business.”
I missed the kind of talk that went on between women—over the course of an hour’s worth of chores, at the clothesline in the courtyard, on front stoops in the evening. The women of Chrystie Street were generous with their stories and their gossip, even when there was no fondness between them. Fast friends one minute, enemies the next, it made no difference to them.
Nestor did his best to make life bearable. We did not talk of Mrs. Wentworth’s cruelty or of the things she did to me behind closed doors. Instead, we spent late nights in the kitchen after Caroline had gone to sleep, raiding the larder and bragging about our “worsts”—the worst fight he’d ever been in, the worst thing I’d ever found rotting in a trash barrel.
He said he’d been raised on Old St. Nichol Street in the East End of London, a place where rats dine better than people, a place that sounded an awful lot like Chrystie Street to me. He went on to say that the only thing that had saved him from ending up in the gutter like the other St. Nichol lads was “meetin’ my
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