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The red-headed resident looked almost euphoric as her arm was lifted and rotated. Clara raised her eyebrows and reassured herself that it must feel better than it looked and sounded. A year ago, Minnie—who was Clara’s age—arrived at Violet House with broken bones throughout her body, including in all four limbs.
Clara took in the other women in various stages of cleansing and treatment, wishing that every Violet House resident could take part. Some were physically unable to make the journey through town; for others, it was out of the question to be touched.
Some here wouldn’t have been able to visit months or years ago, for either or both of those reasons. Pride in these women and their perseverance swelled her heart. Significant illness or injury had impacted them all, and many experienced purposeful hurt or abuse or were forced to use their bodies to survive.
Their postures and faces transformed over the course of the visit. Del had gone from dull-eyed and distant to present and content. Tillie had curled into a ball in the first warm room, the Tepidarium; by the time they left the hottest room, the Caldarium, she unfurled like a morning glory at noontime.
Clara was grateful her body did not share the kind of history that Violet House residents had to confront. Her own moments of discomfort today had other origins. Within minutes in the warmth, her skin was warm and rosy. Her heartbeat sped up, and she felt the flush of her blood pumping in an entirely unladylike manner.
You mustn’t run!
You mustn’t jump!
Her governess’s admonitions had marked her transition from innocent girl to lady in training. From one day to the next, she was forbidden to chase grasshoppers at Anterleigh until she was breathless and sweaty, or to follow David in leaping over clumps of wildflowers.
While David was shepherded into acceptable forms of sport, Clara was introduced to corseting and quiet pursuits like embroidery. Dancing was acceptable—so long as her cheeks didn’t flush too much; piano was encouraged—so long as she performed light or jaunty pieces, not the rousing ones her fingers craved.
When the hammam’s heat had Clara’s body thrumming as if she was a girl running through fields again, she all but heard her beloved governess’s reproach.
It’s for the therapeutic benefits, came her internal justification. It wasn’t her fault that the exertion-like sensations from the heat were welcome, was it?
Clara could almost believe that Sultan Hammam’s furnaces pumped magic, not mere heat. She felt no shame about sweating into her shift like a commoner toiling in the sun, no guilt about the forbidden awareness of every inch of her tingling self.
Looking down at her unrestrained body under her wet shift, she felt as though her it was truly her own. She hadn’t felt like that for more than a decade, starting with the first time a corset cinched her.
Clara watched from the corner of her eye as Del, usually so withdrawn, groaned her satisfaction as an attendant kneaded around her shoulder.
How could this be wrong?
It was Clara’s turn for the water to course over her heated, sweaty form. She leaned her head back, awash in the sensual experience of being cleansed and cooled. The attendant refilled her pitcher multiple times, the final pours anointing her legs and feet.
Sweating in the Caldarium had felt like a deep cleansing, and now the impurities were being washed away.
Refreshed, Clara accepted the ministrations of the new attendant, who began by rubbing down her back with her strong hands. This wasn’t the matter-of-fact or indirect touch of a maid dressing her.
It was stimulating, earthy—and sublime.
Clara and Del were again the last to report to the next treatment room, the Frigidarium. Attendants wrapped them in large cotton sheets, then directed them to inclined chairs, where they were advised to remain wrapped for fifteen minutes before exposing their skin to the cool air.
After gradually opening their cocoons and air-drying, the final stop was the same as their first, the Vestiarium. Clara retrieved her garments from their pegs, feeling almost as though she was a different person than she who’d entered and hung them.
After attendants helped her dress, it surprised Clara when Stella returned so quickly. She’d left to send word to Mr. Pyle, who’d taken up at a nearby public house to pass the time.
“Come, I’ve waited to share this last treat with you,” said Stella, looping her arm through Clara’s.
She led her to the anteroom at the front of the hammam, where the women of Violet House were conversing and partaking in glasses of shrub.
“A health tonic, to fortify us after losing so much of our own moisture,” Stella explained. She retrieved two drinks from the refreshment table.
“It ain't gin, but it's better than nuffink!” Tillie raised her glass of pale-yellow liquid.
“To Violet House’s visit. May it be the first of many!” Clara toasted.
She and Stella clinked glasses, then sipped the tart lemon shrub, an acidic beverage made of sugared lemon rind, vinegar, and a dash of brandy.
“Oh!” Clara blinked, her throat closing. “Fortifying indeed.”
“Tillie should go in the first carriage, or else she’ll need to be carried out,” Stella murmured as they watched the woman help herself to a second glass in short order.
