A Princess in the Age of Science: 1 / 6

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Georgie’s first real memory was a snowstorm. He later learned that it was the worst snowstorm of the decade. Later still, he learned that the decade was the 1850s, and the specific date was January 18, 1857. Before the storm Georgie never knew or needed to know the day or the date, or even the year. Of the days of the week, for Georgie, there were only two: Sunday and the others. He had a nodding acquaintance with numbers and counting, but he couldn’t read or write. Until the storm, Georgie’s ignorance never bothered him; in fact, he was quite unaware of it.

Among other gifts, Mrs. Vendall gave Georgie January 18 as his birthday. Until then, he never had one.

Before the storm, Georgie lived in the bliss of innocence: he was simple, open, unaffected. He grew like Rousseau’s child of nature -- with one difference: Georgie lived in the city, in the heart of Philadelphia. Georgie didn’t reflect on his condition in life. He simply took things as they came. He was as unaware of his poverty as he was unaware of his ignorance. People looked upon the beautiful waif and gave him food, or sometimes clothes.

He was like a lily of the field, who neither toiled nor reaped, but each day received what was needful.

He had distant, vague memories of a frail young girl -- his mother -- and then, something sad, then nothing. That “something sad” was even more vague than the memory of his mother, but he never probed it. After that time, Georgie was alone. He ate, he slept, he wandered where he liked. Some angel must have protected him; his beauty and naivete left him easy prey, and yet the predators never touched him.

Georgie’s innocent, unconscious existence ended when a snowstorm of historic proportions hit Philadelphia, and caught Georgie unprepared. The place where he’d sneak in to sleep was locked. His clothes were warm, but they weren’t proof against the relentless cold of several feet of snow. And food! He hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Georgie walked with the wind at his back, his energy flagging, and at last, thinking to rest for a moment, sat next to a low wall, out of the wind. Suddenly, he fell asleep, like a stone dropping in a well.

He didn’t wake when strong arms plucked him from the snowdrift, and he half-dozed when those arms carried him into a warm house, and up a set of stairs. Dazed, he was aware when a young maid, not much taller than himself, wrapped him, as he trembled in his still-wet rags, in a thick blanket. A tall woman entered, carrying a dark liquid in a tiny glass. “Drink this,” she said, and poured it, a little at a time, between his lips. The taste was shudderingly terrible. Georgie started to squirm.

The woman, who’d seen it all before, told him sternly, “Don’t spit. Swallow. If you spit it out, I’ll make sure you drink two doses. Come on, now.”

Georgie swallowed, shuddering and shaking -- not from the cold, mind, but from the awful medicine. It had to be medicine, it tasted so bad. Instinctively he made the mistake of licking his lips, and got another taste of the disgusting liquid.

“What is that?” Georgie exclaimed.

“It’s a carminative of my own devising,” the woman explained. “And no more questions. You’ll have a bath, a meal, and a good night’s sleep, little lady, and then we’ll have a talk in the morning to decide what’s to become of you.”

“I’m not a lady!” Georgie protested.

The woman took his chin in her hand and studied his features for a moment, turning his head this way, then that. She was enchanted by the child's cherubic face and innocent expression and had no idea she was looking at a little boy. Aside from the grime that covered him, his fine hair, delicate features, and rosy cheeks bespoke an adorable young girl. “Not a lady? No, of course you're not. You're a waif, a ragamuffin, a tatterdemalion. You're a little lost damsel who's known nothing but the alleys and byways of life. Still, once you’re cleaned up and rested, we’ll see what you might come to be.” Then she addressed the little maid. “Aurora, you’ll see to the bath, the bed, the dinner? It should be something light but nourishing, with plenty of hot broth and tea.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied, with a slight curtsy. The woman left the room.

The cordial, in spite of its taste, had brightened Georgie’s eyes, and his habitual bonhommie returned. “Where am I?” he asked, “And who was that woman? And when can I eat? She said I could eat, I heard her.”

“Oh, my,” Aurora said. “You are a caution, aren’t you? Full of questions!”

Georgie felt a little offended. “I only want to know what’s become of me,” he explained in a small voice.

“You’re in Mrs. Vendall’s Institute,” Aurora replied as she turned the taps to fill an enormous claw-foot bathtub. She closed the bathroom door, and a pleasant cloud of steam rose from the tub. “Once the tub is full, you can get in and have a good soak. And make sure you dunk your head well. Use the pink liquid to wash your hair. I’ll comb out your nits when you’re done.”

“I don’t have nits,” Georgie protested.

The girl gave him a skeptical glance before she poured two cupfuls of a white crystalline powder into the bath water.

“What’s that?” Georgie asked. “Sugar?”

The girl laughed. “Sugar? No, it’s not sugar, you silly nit! It’s Brooklings Detersive Bathing Powder.”

“What’s it for?”

The girl drew an astonished breath and turned her incredulous eyes on the boy. “It makes you clean! It’s better than soap!” Her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Have you ever had a bath before?”

“I don’t know,” Georgie replied. “I’ve never been sat in a tub, if that’s what you mean. I have been wet all over, but I’ve never seen a powder like that.”

The girl rolled her eyes, and read the box’s label. “Brookling’s Detersive provides a deep and pleasant bathing experience. Its finely-grained crystals open and clear the pores and render the skin elastic and bright. Brookling’s Detersive Bathing Powder is the scientific means for maintaining the highest level of hygiene for the entire person. Brookling’s reduces blemishes and imperfections, and cures disease by removing its cause.”

“Are you sure it’s not sugar?” Georgie asked. “Did you ever taste it?”

The girl turned her eyes again to the label. She read off some of the ingredients: “Pearl ash, alumina milk, carbonate, verbena, …. This isn’t sugar.” She swished her hand through the water, dissolving the crystals and turning the water an opaque, milky pink.

“I’ll see that your bed is ready,” she told Georgie, “and I’ll tell the kitchen about you.” She sniffed and straightened up. “I’m only doing this because you’re in such a state, mind. I’m not here to wait upon you hand and foot.” She held her gaze on Georgie until he nodded. “You, leave your, eh, clothes on the floor here, and hop into the tub. And don’t forget to dunk your head.” At that she left the room.

Now that Georgie was housed, blanketed, warmed, and restored by the cordial, he took stock of his surroundings. He’d seen bathrooms before, but never one so clean, with nary a broken tile. The mirrors were whole and without crack or dust. He could feel the heat of the bathwater on his face. It was an inviting sensation. Georgie stepped out of the enveloping blanket. He peeled off his damp clothes -- rags, really -- and dropped them to the floor.

Faint with hunger, he nearly swooned, but managed to grip the tub’s edge until his head stopped spinning. Then he raised his leg high, over, and into the water and boosted his torso up until his stomach rested on the tub’s edge. At last, he slipped into the water and let out a long, pleased ohhhhhh.

Exhausted, he fell deeply asleep.

Aurora eventually returned, woke him, and made him wash his hair. After he dunked his head, she poured some shampoo into his hands, and as he lathered, he asked, “Do I have to use the whole bottle?” She didn’t bother to answer; she just screwed the top back on, set the bottle on its shelf, and left the boy alone once again.

After he clambered out of the tub, he saw that his rags were gone, and that Aurora had left a white muslin nightdress and a pale pink cotton robe for him to wear. Making a virtue of necessity, he slipped the nightdress over his head and tied the robe around him. He’d find his clothes in the morning.

Aurora returned with a chair, a bowl of vinegar, and a comb with long, fine teeth. She stood behind Georgie and methodically combed his head until she was satisfied that every nit was removed from Georgie’s head and lying dead in the vinegar bowl.

“What is your name?” Aurora asked.

“Georgie,” he replied.

“My aunt lives in Georgia,” Aurora commented. “She says it’s a lovely state to be in.”

She led Georgie to a small but well appointed room. A hot meal sat ready on a little table. It consisted of a large bowl of a dense, strong broth, a huge pot of tea, soft rolls with butter, and chunks of a bland white cheese. Aurora sat and watched him eat. Her eyes widened when the boy lifted the bowl of broth to his lips and drank off the liquid in series of loud gulps, followed by a satisfied gasp for air, and finally by loud, cheerful burp.

“Oh, my,” Aurora said. “You’re like a wild creature.”

“In what way?” Georgie asked, puzzled. When she didn’t answer, he made short work of the cheese and bread. He finished his meal by eating slices of butter off his knife, washed down by cup after cup of tea.

When he finished, when all the food was gone, he smiled a glorious smile at the little maid, who astonished by his capacity and speed, offered to bring up a load of firewood, “if you’re still hungry.”

Georgie didn’t understand her mild sarcasm, so he didn’t answer.

Aurora stood up, placed herself behind Georgie’s chair, and began brushing his hair. “Why haven’t you let your hair grow?” she asked. “Did you sell it?”

Georgie replied, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t-- oh, never mind.” After all the knots were brushed out, Aurora told him, “You’re going to have to do this every day yourself, if you want your hair to shine.” Then, after setting down the brush, she said, “I’ll plait your hair, but the plaits will be short.”

Georgie had never heard the word plait before, so he told her, “That’s fine.” Soon he understood that "plait" was a fancy word for braid. To Aurora’s irritation, Georgie’s head began to nod with sleep, but she managed to finish all the same.

“I’ll leave you now,” Aurora told him. “There is your bed. I’ll come to wake you in the morning.”

My bed, Georgie said to himself. I’ve never slept in a bed before.

He climbed atop the pile of mattresses and, still wearing the robe, wormed his way under the heavy covers.

Then, the little boy, who knew nothing about God or religion, asked himself, I wonder should I say a prayer? How would I begin? He felt as though he ought to thank someone for his unexpected luck and this undeserved luxury. As noble as his intentions were, his fatigue was far greater, and no sooner had he asked about a prayer, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.