Harlot (2 page)

No.

“I have coin,” he said.

She froze a few feet from the door. Went silent. She stood so still she must’ve been holding her breath. He could just make out the pale strip of bare neck between the collar of her gray dress and her upswept hair. He’d wanted to kiss her there for so long. On their wedding night, he’d thought. Moving slowly and gently so as not to frighten her.

His clenched hands shook.

“What?” she asked, still facing the hallway.

“I can pay.” The words came out so low that he wasn’t sure she’d heard, but then she turned slightly. Enough that he could see the line of her straight nose and the way her chest rose with a deep breath. She stared into the parlor for a long moment rather than look back at him.

In the end, she said nothing. She only walked away, melting into the shadows of the house, her footsteps fading until a door closed and shut him off from even the sound of her.

Caleb knew there was nothing to do but leave, but he stood at her doorway for a dozen more heartbeats before he could make himself go.

‡

The sounds of this place
still frightened her. Everything frightened her lately, but this old house in the middle of nowhere on this moonless night, that was the worst.

Tree branches scraped across the roof. Bill said the tree should be cut down before it fell down, but then she’d feel more exposed. More vulnerable.

Curled tight in her bed, Jessica tried to keep herself from panicking, but it wasn’t safe here. Not really. At first men had come from town, banging on the doors and demanding entry, their drunk voices ringing through the windows, calling out for a fuck or a suck or other things she didn’t even understand.

But those visits had mostly died off, especially after Melisande and Bill had come. The two had arrived seeking work, having heard in town that there was a new whorehouse down the road. Melisande had been open to any kind of work, even on her back, and she would cook and clean. Bill was a handyman, capable of providing protection as well.

Jessica had liked the sound of that and the look of both of them. She’d made clear there would be no whoring in this house, ever, but they were welcome to stay if they would work the farm with her. They’d stayed. Bill had taken the little room above the barn, but after a time, Melisande had ended up sleeping there more often than not. They would have married, but Bill was white, and they didn’t want to invite trouble.

Jessica was glad they were here. It felt almost safe now, yet still not safe enough.

If a knock came tonight, it wouldn’t be some drunk cowboy sent from town. It would be Caleb.

A sob shuddered from her throat.

He had come back. Which added another lie to the many Caleb’s stepfather had told her. She shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was. When she’d agreed to do that terrible thing, when she’d given in to her fear and done something awful…she’d told herself that at least Caleb would never know.

She’d been told he’d settled in California. That he’d decided to stay there with a new sweetheart. Some capable, pretty girl, Jessica had suspected. Some girl who could cook and clean and contribute more to a man’s life than careful embroidery. He’d marry that girl, surely. If he ever returned to Colorado, it would be with a family in tow.

And now, less than six months after she’d sold her virginity, here he was, looking at her as if she was beneath contempt. And she was.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, then covered her mouth to quiet a cry that tore itself free from her chest. Oh, God.
Caleb
. Whatever he’d done in California, he was back now, and she couldn’t bear that he knew about her. He was furious, of course, but his eyes had looked so hurt. So unbelieving. Because of
her
.

She loved him. She had always loved him and always would. From the first moment they’d met, he’d made her life so
real
. He’d treated her carefully yet inspired wildness in her heart. It had never mattered to her that he was rough around the edges. She’d liked him just as he was.

He was the one who’d always insisted he wasn’t enough. That she was too good for him.

He would never, ever say that again.

Jessica pressed her face into her pillow and cried until her throat hurt and her eyes were too swollen to create more tears. She had no idea how much time passed. An hour, maybe. When she finally scrubbed her tears away, she was more tired than afraid, at least.

What exactly was she scared of, anyway? Her life was done. Everything she’d wanted or dreamed of was beyond her reach now. Let the night come. Let the men grab and leer. She had nothing to lose.

Let Caleb come if he meant to.

Her body went rigid at the thought. Her mind stumbled over the idea, then tried to back away, but Jessica wouldn’t let it. She exhaled slowly and thought it again.

Caleb might come back, and what if he did? He wouldn’t return to apologize or make amends. He wouldn’t come back to court her. She was a whore. There was only one reason he might return, and he’d thrown it at her in scorn.
I can pay
.

So much disgust in that sentence. He’d pay for what they’d meant to do someday in their marriage bed.

He’d never marry her now. He’d never love her. But he could pay for the privilege of using her body. She should be offended, but what was the insult? She’d taken money for the same act before, and with Caleb she would be paid to do something she’d dreamed of for years.

But she hadn’t dreamed of it this year. This year she’d learned what it was. Sex. Intercourse. The same crude joining of every animal in the barnyard.

She’d assumed it would be different for people, something to do with sighs and kisses and the poetry of touch. That was how she’d imagined it with Caleb, as lovely and mysterious and
pretty
. But now she knew how ugly sex was. No different than two cats mating.

If Caleb paid to come to her bed, he’d squeeze her breasts a few times, pull at her nipples, and then he’d shove his cock into her hole. His mouth would be slack with animal hunger at first, and there’d be nothing pretty about those kisses. Nothing but wetness and sucking, and then he’d offer a few foul words before his lips twisted into a grotesque grimace that must be pleasure but looked like pain.

She should be glad she would never marry now. She wouldn’t be faced with a lifetime of doing that with a man at night and then tending his meals and laundry and babies every day, just so he could do that to her again when the sun went down. How did women bear it?

But somehow she was still a fool. She couldn’t imagine Caleb’s hands digging into her breasts, despite their rough strength. He’d always touched her gently, held her hand as if she’d break. And his lips were so tight, his jaw so strong, she couldn’t imagine his mouth going wet and slack against her skin.

Some women enjoyed intercourse, surely. She’d seen loving looks between wives and husbands. She’d read the beautiful verses of the Song of Solomon in the Bible. And Melisande loved Bill. She slept with him, stayed with him. There must be something there beyond the mercenary attraction of male protection.

Maybe with Caleb, it could’ve been beautiful. If he’d still loved her. If they’d married. But no one gave pleasure to a whore.

The wind kicked up outside, dragging a branch against the house. Jessica squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to let the fear back in.

It sounded like fingers scratching, but there was no one there. No one trying to get in and devour her. No one shouting
whore
up at her window.

The only man who’d come by in weeks had said it quietly and to her face. And if he came back, he’d knock on the front door again. He’d ask for her by name and he’d hurt her with just a look. She didn’t need to be afraid of things hiding in the dark. The night was no longer so frightening; Caleb had come by day.

‡

Jessica could feel Melisande watching
her as they hoed the garden. They hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, but the biscuits were in the oven. Some chores were better done before the sun could take hold.

“What?” Jessica finally asked.

“You knew that man.”

“I did.”

“A customer?”

She shook her head, hoping her friend would leave it be. But she knew Melisande better than that.

“Your eyes are swollen,” Melisande pressed.

“Everything is fine. It was nothing. You don’t need to worry.”

“I’m not worried. Not for me and Bill, at least.”

Jessica cleared her throat and wiped her sleeve over her forehead. “What does he…? Bill, I mean…he doesn’t treat you badly?”

“No. I told you, he’s a good man.”

“But you were… When you came here, you were looking for work. As a prostitute.”

“Yes.” Melisande’s voice was even, as if they were discussing sewing.

“Yet he still treats you well,” Jessica said, trying to make sense of it.

“Despite that I’m a whore? Yes, he loves me. I wouldn’t say he likes it, but I was a whore when we met. He kept coming back. Paying for more time. He told me I was beautiful. He was the first man who ever made me believe it. I never felt ugly with him, even when he was watching me wash up from other men. It was just part of our life. A small part.”

“But not anymore?”

Melisande shrugged, her eyes on the beanstalks she was working around. “Not right now, thanks to you. And never again if Bill has any say. But the world is a new place every day.”

Jessica couldn’t imagine that a man could love a woman who’d been a prostitute, much less one who still was. But Bill was calm. Kind. And he’d obviously had no objection to visiting whorehouses himself.

“What if you have children?” Jessica asked. “You wouldn’t be able to do that kind of work then.”

“Lots of whores have kids, but I can’t have babies.” Her words sounded hesitant for the first time. “When I was fourteen, I had one taken out of me. Bled for months. Something’s wrong inside me now.”

Jessica touched her arm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“I was too small anyway,” Melisande said. “A baby would likely have killed me. Why are you asking me all this now? Is it that man?”

Jessica shook her head and moved to the next row of beans, putting some distance between them. “No.”

“You knew him before?”

Before. Yes. In her life before, when her world had been endless seasons of reading and stitching and teatime with other young women. Her father hadn’t been rich. He hadn’t had any money at all, apparently, but she’d been sheltered and privileged and protected.

Melisande ignored her silence. “He came out here to see you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jessica answered quickly. “He knows the truth now.” But not all of it. She hoped he’d never know that. “It just…doesn’t matter.”

“I guess not,” Melisande said. “But your life isn’t over.”

Jessica froze, the blade of the hoe poised a few inches from the hard dirt. “What?”

“You spread your legs for money, and it didn’t kill you. So you pick up and you move on like every other whore who got to walk away from it. A lot of women can’t ever leave. You got away from it, and that’s something for you to celebrate, not die over.”

Jessica’s skin prickled with a feeling close to terror. How could Melisande say that? It wasn’t true. A whore was a worthless piece of nothing. Used up. Ruined. It was worse than being dead, because no one even mourned for you and you had to go on. Keep moving. Keep breathing. Keep pretending to be alive. But everyone knew you were a dirty, empty shell.

“A prick ain’t filled with poison,” Melisande muttered. “It’s just spunk. Men walk around full of it, and look how pleased they are with themselves.”

Jessica’s laugh was more from shock than amusement, but after the surprise faded, she nodded. Her friend’s words were true enough. Men were always pleased with themselves. And whatever a whore did, there was a man doing it right there with them.

“They’re people’s husbands, though,” Jessica whispered, afraid to have this conversation even in the middle of a rocky field that was supposed to be a farm. “They’re fathers and husbands, and we let them—”