Melisande glanced quickly around the kitchen, imagining her mother there. She hadn’t been a particularly good cook, but she certainly could’ve handled the large pots of rice and gumbo that simmered on the stove. Had she been happy here, working with these women? Had she missed her only child?
She turned to leave, but as she stepped into the alley and glanced west, she realized how close she was to Bill’s boarding house. It wasn’t even five yet, and he likely wouldn’t be home for an hour or two. Regardless of how much she needed to see him, if she wanted to get to the hospital today, she’d need to go now.
She stepped back into the kitchen. “Miss Clara? Would you have a scrap of paper I could use?”
Clara hefted a steaming pot and nodded her head toward the wall behind Melisande. Several notes were pinned there, most of the scolding sort. Do not take sugar without asking Fayette!
Melisande tore a strip from the bottom of one and used a nearby pencil to write a quick note.
It took only two minutes to get to Bill’s place. The shutters were locked tight, and she was afraid to get caught poking around, so she slid the note quickly through a space in the slats and hoped he’d find it. Maybe he wouldn’t care even if he did find it.
She stuffed the thought down and set off in the direction of the hospital. Her feet ached already. She supposed she didn’t spend much time on them. That was the joke men made anyway. Frowning, she kept her head down and walked as quickly as she could.
As it was, she might not make it in time to find her mother’s vault. There’d be rows and rows of them and surely no chiseled markers to help.
She picked up her speed, almost running now, though she didn’t understand her own urgency. Marie Angelle had been dead for eight months. Melisande had felt no difference in her world. She hadn’t noticed an emptiness in her heart. Nothing had changed for her in April and nothing was changed now, but she still raced up the street. She could see the great white building now, an instantly recognizable place even though she’d visited only once before.
Breathing hard, she reached the top of the steps and burst through the front doors, then gasped in relief when she saw the nun behind the tall reception desk. “Pardon me,” she managed to get out as she rushed toward the woman.
The nun glanced over Melisande’s shoulder in confusion. “Has there been an accident?”
“No…” Melisande gasped. “I’m sorry. I just…” She took a deep breath and pressed her hand to her chest to calm her heart. “I apologize. I wonder if you could help me find the location of a grave? She died here, and I assume…” She waved vaguely in the direction of the cemetery behind the hospital. “I think she’s there.”
“Oui, of course,” the nun said, dipping her covered head. “I have the book here.”
A few minutes later, Melisande left with the nun’s crudely drawn map and the number that would mark Marie Angelle’s grave. 817. Were there so many buried here, then?
Slipping between the iron gates that marked the entrance to the cemetery brought Melisande a little peace. It was quiet here, and the rows and rows of stone crypts had their own sort of beauty, especially when the setting sun caught the carved facades. Her pace slowed a little as she slid through the long, straight pathways, heading for the square the nun had drawn. Birds chirped from nests they’d built in cracks in the rock. A hymn rose up from a few rows over, the quiet voice of a woman visiting a loved one.
Individual crypts gave way to common vaults that seemed a mile long. It wasn’t until she reached the end of one of the narrow walkways that Melisande realized her mistake. She frowned at the paper in her hand, then looked around, hoping she was wrong. But no. There were no vaults here. No pale marble tombs to hold the dead. Dirt stretched out before her, some of it freshly turned, some packed down and covered with weeds. Tiny flat squares were laid on the ground every twelve inches or so. She approached the first and saw a number etched into the stone. 201.
This was Potter’s Field. This was where poor women like her mother were laid to rest. In the dirt, mingling with the bodies of others, waiting to be disturbed by the first big flood that came along. The air here wasn’t peaceful and cool. It was hot and thick, bringing the faintest hint of death to her nose. They couldn’t be buried very deep. The dirt would turn to mud a few feet down.
Some of the graves were marked with homemade crosses. A few were even outlined with rocks to separate them from others. But most had only the square stones to mark them, and for stretches at a time, even those were missing.
Melisande moved slowly forward, watching the numbers tick up as her shoes crunched through dead grass. She did her best not to step on any obvious graves, but it seemed impossible. They were so close together and so poorly marked.
She finally reached a row with a number that began with eight. Weeds had just started to grow on this soil. She tripped over one marker, and when she looked up from straightening it, she saw 817 just in front of her.
She moved closer and stood over the stone, staring at the narrow rectangle of dirt beyond it, waiting to feel something. This was her mother, after all. All that was left of her.
A few years ago, Melisande might have imagined spitting on this ground. When she was only thirteen, her mother had delivered her to a man who’d raped her. Cowed at first, Melisande had gone willingly, aware of how much money he’d paid. But as soon as the man had stripped her, she’d sobbed in terror, begging him not to hurt her. He had.
The next man had hurt her too. And the many men who’d come after that. Marie Angelle had remained stone-faced each time Melisande had begged not to be given away again. “You had to start some day, chérie. We all do.”
That hadn’t been a lie, really. Melisande had been the daughter of a whore. There had never been any social-climbing marriage in her future. Truthfully, she knew her mother had waited longer than most. Plenty of girls like Melisande had been turned out at age nine or ten, maybe even most of them.
Some of her anger had faded, it seemed. Because as she stood and stared at the grave, Melisande wondered if her mother had ever meant to sell her at all. There had been no talk of it in her younger years. It hadn’t happened until a customer had exploded in a drunken rage and knocked Marie’s front teeth out with one great blow. In that moment, whatever small beauty she’d possessed had been gone. There were no more high-paying customers. There were certainly no patrons willing to pay her rent for exclusive use of her.
She’d sold Melisande’s virginity then, but only then, and Melisande had become the breadwinner.
If that hadn’t happened, perhaps Melisande would have grown up and married some simple man. It was what her aunt had wanted for her. What Melisande had expected as a girl. She could have had a house, a family, a man to support them all.
But now, after everything she’d been through, even the dream seemed foolish. Maybe she wouldn’t have been better off, tied forever to a man who could drink and whore and gamble all his money away no matter who was waiting at home for him. At least as a prostitute, she made her own decisions, made her own way.
Whatever her life could have been, and whatever independence she’d claimed, this grave was what awaited Melisande now. She would be a whore for another decade, give or take a few years. Even if she managed to avoid getting scarred up or rotting from disease, she’d soon be too old to earn enough to support herself.
Like her mother, she’d take a lower-paying job, scrubbing sheets soiled with customers’ spunk or maybe cooking their food. And like her mother, she’d end up here. Thrown in the dirt without a name, without one person left to even stand here and care. She’d rot here forever just like every other dead whore in this town.
Melisande went to her knees. She didn’t cry. She’d cried over her mother hundreds of nights as a girl. Those tears had dried up years ago. She didn’t cry for herself either. She just closed her eyes and breathed, wondering what it was like when even your breath was gone. According to the church, she wouldn’t go to heaven.
She’d be stuck in this place forever, waiting for nothing.
Her knees ached and her feet went numb. It felt like praying, but she didn’t have any words to put to it. The light shining through her eyelids began to fade, and the air cooled.
She didn’t hear anyone approach, but suddenly a hand was around her arm. She looked up slowly, not caring if someone meant her harm.
“Melisande,” Bill’s voice said before she could focus her eyes. “What’s wrong? Why are you in Potter’s Field?”
He’d cared enough to come for her, even though he must be tired and hungry after so many hours of work.
“I don’t want to be here,” she whispered.
“Let’s leave, then.”
“No, I mean I don’t want to end up here. And even if I leave now, I’ll be back.”
He pulled her to her feet and held her up.
“It’s my mother,” she murmured. “She’s dead.”
“Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”
She nodded, but then the motion changed and she was shaking her head. “Did you mean it? About taking up with me?”
His body stiffened against her and she cringed. A stupid question. It had been only bedroom talk. She’d known that deep inside, hadn’t she?
“Melisande…” he started.
She forced a smile, already opening her mouth to tell him that it was fine, that she understood.
But he surprised her. “Of course I meant it.”
She lifted her head to study his face. Could she believe him?
“Come to my room.” He began to lead her away, making her feet walk without her even feeling it. “I’ll bring meat and bread. We’ll have dinner and get you warmed up.”
Was she cold? She stopped and turned back. Her mother’s marker was already mixed up with all the others. Soon the marker would get kicked out of place or covered up, and everything Marie Angelle had been would be lost forever.
Was it possible that Melisande could have something different?
“Adieu, Maman,” she whispered, and then she let Bill lead her away.
Chapter 6
‡
They didn’t talk at all until morning. Just as he’d promised, Bill had taken her home and fed her. He’d poured her a glass of cheap wine and undressed her, and then he’d held her until she slept.
She woke with a start, unsure where she was at first, lost in the darkness of his room. For a moment, she wondered if she were already in a grave, unable to see, the burial shroud tangled around her limbs.
Bill caught her arms and pulled her back to the bed, soothing her with the sound of his voice and pulling the blankets back up to warm her. He lit the lamp, and she finally remembered where she was.
“You’ll be late,” she protested when he settled back next to her.
“It’s barely dawn. I’ve an hour before work, at least.”
She settled thankfully into his embrace.
“Anyway, half the men won’t show up until noon after last night.”
She shot him a quizzical look.
“It’s the new year,” he said.
That had been the trouble niggling at her mind. The news of her mother had shocked every other thought away. “Madame will kill me,” she groaned. They’d been ordered to wear their best and be festive for the celebrating customers. To pretend that a new year meant something good instead of just another year of being bought.
“I thought you’d decided not to go back.”
Yes, she’d thought that too, but everything was clearer in the morning. “I can’t have a respectable life here, even if I want it. I’ve been selling myself for ten years. Too many people know me as a prostitute.”
“So we’ll go away.”
He’d mentioned Kansas, but she’d thought that was idle talk. The possibility shimmered in her mind, yet it seemed impossible. New Orleans was the only place she’d ever known.
“Why?” she asked, the word pulled from her mouth in a cry. “Why would you go away with me?”
“Because I haven’t been living for a while,” Bill answered. “I’ve existed. I’ve worked. I’ve kept moving.”
Yes, she understood that. Sometimes she thought that was all she’d done.
“And when I met you, I started thinking maybe I was more than a man who’d lost everything. I started wanting something more. Something good.”
Melisande opened her mouth to point out that she wasn’t something good, but her throat refused to let the words go. Wasn’t she as good as the men who visited her? Wasn’t she as good as the wives of New Orleans who pretended not to know? Wasn’t she better than the fathers who left their families and forced women to do anything they could to survive?
She swallowed the ugly words about herself and said something better. “Where…where would we go?”
The harshness of Bill’s broad face softened at her question. “North,” he said hopefully. “West. Anywhere.”
“But your work. You build ships. How would we live?”
He shrugged. “Wood is wood. All I do is follow someone else’s orders. I can build fences or railroad tracks just as easily as ships. I have a little saved, and if you want, a free ride up the river to St. Louis. I know a few of the captains. We could start there. See where it leads us.”
North, she thought. Or west. All the way to California if they wanted. She could see places she’d only read about. Meet people who knew nothing about her.
She let hope take her over for a moment, let it sink into her skin. But her skin was too armored for that, apparently. The hope slid right off.
“And if I need to work?” she asked softly.
Bill pushed up on his elbows and propped himself against the wall without answering.
“If I ever need to make my own way?” she pressed. “Have my own money?” She pulled the sheets to her chest and sat up to meet his eyes. “If we run out of coin and I need to work, will you beat me for reminding you I’m a whore?”
His nostrils flared as his cheeks flushed. “I’d never touch you that way. Never.”
“Would you leave me, then?” That was the fear, wasn’t it? That she’d take a chance on this man and it wouldn’t make a difference?
The anger faded from his face. He shook his head and dropped his eyes. After he took a deep breath, he met her gaze again and stared at her for a long while before he spoke. “Do you like it?” he asked.
“What?”
“What you do.”
She held his eyes and answered honestly. “No. It’s just working with my body, same as you do. Some days I’d rather do anything else. Some days it’s fine. I can’t say I ever like it, but it’s better than being dead, and it’s better than begging for food.”
“Well then.” He searched her eyes for another moment before reaching out to cup her chin carefully in his hand. “I suppose if you can hate it and do it, I can hate it and know it was done. I’d say I get the easier end of that bargain.”
She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until she let it out. Relieved, she turned her head and kissed the palm of his hand. A strange relief, but there it was. She could be his helpmate, but she couldn’t put her future in his hands and hope for the best. The best of some men wasn’t anything good at all. She wouldn’t be beaten for wanting something for herself. She couldn’t live like that.
“We could leave today,” he said.
She laughed at his bright words. “We can’t. You’re mad.”
“It’s the new year. As good a day for a new start as any. I’ll collect my pay. You collect your things. I’ll find passage heading north. All we have to do is step aboard.”
Was it that simple? Just gather her things and take Bill’s hand and float away?
“New Orleans will always be here if you want it,” he added.
That was true, wasn’t it? It wasn’t such a frightening leap when she could come back. There was always some house needing another whore. “And you?” she asked.
“I’ll be wherever
you are, love.”
Love. The hope was back, trying to settle over her. This time the pores of her skin opened and let it in. It sank into her and spread through her body until she felt brand-new.
She slid herself over him, straddling his hips.
“For now,” she murmured as his hands went to her thighs, “I’m right here. And so are you.” His cock was already hardening. She gripped it, feeling it stretch and thicken in her grasp. “And we won’t get much privacy on a riverboat.”
She caught his sigh with her mouth and took him into her body, loving the way he whispered her name into the kiss. And at the end, when he groaned out his love for her…for the first time ever, she truly believed him.
* * *
Thank you for reading Angel!
If you’d like to find out where Melisande and Bill wind up, please check out Harlot, a little Wild West romance about an angry cowboy, a fallen woman, and dark, dirty revenge. In fact, you can read the first chapter right here…
Keep reading for a sneak peek of Harlot, an erotic Western by Victoria Dahl…
Chapter 1
‡
Cooper’s Meadow, Colorado, 1875
Jessica wasn’t a whore.
Caleb Hightower knew that for a fact. She wasn’t a whore, she wasn’t running a whorehouse, and this wasn’t her place.
Yes, the house sat a mile past Black Rock Creek and was shaded by a cottonwood half-dead from a lightning strike, just as he’d been told, but he still didn’t believe the story. She wasn’t a whore, and he wouldn’t find her here.
The paint on most of the south wall of the farmhouse was cracked and peeling, but a small patch of it shone white and new. A ladder leaned against the wall below the freshly painted square. No one stood on it. Lunchtime maybe. It was nearly noon.
As he rode his horse up the long dirt lane, Caleb adjusted his hat to better shade his eyes from the summer sun, trying to give himself a view through the dark windows of the house. There was no movement he could see. Not inside the house, or around the barn or the smaller outbuilding. A garden plot lay beyond the barn, and a small cornfield just past that.
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