Ann Collins watched as the blood she’d wiped away with the once pristine white cloth seeped into the warm water as she rinsed it out. With the wet cloth, she continued to tend to the woman’s wounds – the split lip, the gash in her cheek, the swollen and bruised eye. With a small smile, she dabbed at the wounds.
“It’s going to be beautiful,” she said quietly, her voice taking on a dreamy quality that was absent in her normal daily conversation, her words having a spark of life that had been missing from everyday life. “Gray stone. A pretty little walkway lined with daisies. A wrought iron fence. I’m going to plant lavender beneath the windows so that on days like today, when the wind is blowing just right, I can open them and have the scent sweep through the house.” She stopped dabbing at the woman’s wounds as she looked up, staring at the wall but not seeing it. Instead, she gazed upon her dream longingly, seeing the cottage in her mind’s eye as if she were actually standing in front of it rather than sitting in the communal bedroom of the brothel.
“I’m going to have a chicken coop with twenty… no… thirty chickens. Fresh eggs daily, eggs to sell. And a cow. I’m going to have a cow. Fresh milk whenever I want it. And a dog or three. A terrier maybe? It’ll be away from the city, away from all of this.” Her lips curled into a wistful smile as she imagined what she hoped would be her future. “Nobody to ‘entertain.’ Just me. The dogs. Maybe a few birds. I like finches.” Falling silent, she continued to stare off into space for a few moments before almost shaking herself back to reality. Looking back at the woman, she smiled again. “It will be beautiful, and so peaceful. I’ll grow old there, and when I die…” She closed her eyes for a moment, the reality of her situation pressing in on her dream, threatening to pop it. “When I die, I want to be buried there.” Considering her choice in adopting her new profession, Ann knew that being buried in the church yard beside her husband was almost completely out of the question. While she may have once been a noble woman - God-fearing, church-going, honorable – the simple fact was that she was not any longer. Now, according to the church she’d belonged to her entire life, she was nothing but a whore.
When she’d been raised in the church, she hadn’t thought much about sin. Granted, her everyday life was ruled by the fear of sin, but she’d never considered Original Sin and its detrimental effect on souls. At least, not until three months ago when she’d lost nearly everything, forcing her into a life she’d never considered for herself. The church spoke about the evils of sin, about the immorality of vice, almost as if it had forgotten that Jesus Himself accepted the sinners, those that society deemed as shameful. It seemed as if everyone had forgotten that He had accepted prostitutes, the homeless, the weak, the disabled, the criminals. And now, here she was, selling the only thing she had that was able to make money, attempting to get back to a good life. Was she immoral?
Ann wrestled with the concept of morality daily. Certainly, her decision was frowned upon, but what else could she have done? When Samuel died, debt collectors came out of the woodwork, depleting her funds. As she was not a male, she couldn’t own her house, and she was forced to move. High rents, had depleted the remainder of her savings. While there didn’t seem to be much of a shortage of potential suitors that she could marry and save herself from having to make the choice to become a prostitute, Ann couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t love any of them. Her love for her husband had been so deep, so profound, that when he died, she felt as if she died with him – not just a piece of her, but her whole being went into the ground with him. She would not marry another. She vowed to herself that when she could afford it, she would live out the rest of her days alone with her memories because without Samuel, she didn’t think she’d ever find happiness again.
“I’d like to come see it,” the battered woman muttered, her speech slurred around the tongue that had swollen when she’d bit it in surprise at the first blow. “D’ ya think I can someday? Come an’ stay wi’ you on holiday for a couple days?”
Her words brought Ann back to reality and she smiled at the woman, reaching into the porcelain bowl to rinse the blood from the cloth again. “Of course, Gloria. I would enjoy a visit from you.” Gently, she wiped the remainder of the blood from the woman’s face. As she looked at the swollen eye, the raw and battered flesh, she couldn’t help but imagine herself merely a week ago, in nearly the same state. Briefly, Ann wondered if it had been the same offender, but then realized that there were far more than just one man who enjoyed using his fists on a hired woman.
In the three months that she’d been in this career, she’d seen more than she ever would have thought possible. In the three months that she’d been selling herself, the only thing she had, she’d hardened. Although, in comparison to the majority of the other women in the brothel, Ann carried much of her old self. She prayed nightly that she would be able to make the money fast enough to get away from all of this before she became as hardened as them. She prayed fervently that God would help her find happiness again before despair swallowed her whole, as it had many of the women she found herself surrounded with. In her mind, happiness was that gray stone cottage with the lavender beneath the windows. Whether or not God listened, she had yet to discover.
A sudden bustle of activity at the door to the communal bedroom made Ann look up to see Madam Ruth enter, shaking her head and clucking her tongue. “Ah, Ann, why d’ya insist on fillin’ her head wi’ ‘at nonsense? Ya know as well as I ‘at nothin’ o’ th’ sort will ever happen for any o’ ya.”
Ann bristled at the words, standing and carrying the porcelain bowl to the window to dump the water out into the alley. “Madam Ruth, there is nothing wrong with dreams. We should all be able to hold on to our dreams. For some of us, it’s all we have.”
Striding further into the room, picking her way between the six beds that crowded the small room, Madam Ruth clucked her tongue again in disapproval, reaching a hand out to grab Ann by the chin. Squinting, she peered at Ann’s face, tilting her head this way and that, studying the yellowed bruising around the eye, the jaw. “Not all ya got. Ya got yer body too, for now. An’ yours has been requested tonight.” Releasing Ann’s chin with a sigh, she gestured to the table. “Bit o’ powder should cover th’ last o’ that bruise.” Moving off toward the wardrobe, Madam Ruth tilted her head as she studied the clothing inside before selecting a very modest walking dress. “Stay on the edge o’ th’ candle-light, he’ll never notice.” Tossing the dress onto Ann’s bed, Madam Ruth turned to walk from the room. “He’s sendin’ a carriage for ya at seven tonight. Be ready.”
Ann was shocked, standing still, the bowl threatening to fall from hands that seemed to have lost all control. Requested? Someone had requested her? Ann hadn’t been in service long enough to build a base of regular customers, and never had Madam Ruth selected her wardrobe for her. Was it the one from last week? The one with the fists, the flashing gold ring? Closing her eyes, Ann took a deep breath. The cottage, she thought. One step closer to the cottage.
“I was… requested? Personally?” she asked hesitantly.
Madam Ruth turned around and studied Ann for a moment. “Not exactly.” Reaching into a pocket at her hip, she pulled forth a note and handed it to Ann.
With curiosity, Ann unfolded the note and read.
Require nice woman. Will pay handsomely. Will send carriage at 7pm and return in the morning.
Ann read the words to herself again and again. Return in the morning? Unheard of! The money that could be made was astronomical! Mentally calculating this, her potential for profit, how much more substantial her cottage-fund could grow, Ann almost smiled. Looking up to Madam Ruth for clarification, she blinked. “Why me?”
Madam Ruth simply winked slightly before casting a glance to Gloria who was listening intently. Leaning in, she whispered directly into Ann’s ear: “For yer cottage. I want to visit too.” Turning, she left the room leaving an astounded Ann and an intensely curious Gloria.
Seven o’clock. Ann glanced at the clock in the room and bit her lip. She had plenty of time to bathe and dress and prepare herself. Moving over toward her bed, she reached beneath her pillow and pulled out the tattered wedding picture she kept. One step closer to happiness, Sam, she thought. One step closer to you.