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“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—”
“Aren’t you somebody’s daughter?” Melisande snapped. “Aren’t I?”
Jessica’s throat closed. She couldn’t breathe. She stared at Melisande, who looked so strong and beautiful after ten years of selling her body to men. Yes, Melisande was someone’s daughter. So was Jessica. She’d been loved and treasured for twenty-one years, and she’d been a person. A woman. Maybe she still was.
Melisande nodded.
Jessica couldn’t nod back.
