Chapter 3 Faith

3

FAITH

The bed was comfortable; the quilts were thin but soft. She wanted to go to sleep so badly. She had to wait while the matron assembled her new belongings: two white aprons, a washbasin and jug with fresh water from the cistern, a hobnail lamp, a calico dress, stockings. After her bath, Miss Rhoades presented it all to her with a flourish, as though she’d never had possessions to call her own.

She had known finer things. She had also known worse.

Miss Rhoades fussed over her. She tucked echinacea into a vase, helped her comb out her hair—this hairbrush would be hers now! All hers!

The girl who was now called Faith nodded and smiled. Yes, she did feel better having shed her corset. Her aching breasts throbbed under her new chemise, but she didn’t say this to Miss Rhoades. She’d never been much for speaking. It was difficult to do without her voice shaking, or, sometimes, without tears running down her face. But this was something new. Speaking had become impossible. Why, look what had happened when she’d tried to say just one little thing to her roommate. A disaster. Said roommate was now nowhere to be seen. She wondered where May had gone, and how many other girls there were in this place. By the number of rooms, it seemed there would be thirty or forty. She’d seen girls of varied complexions and nationalities, who seemed to be sorted into bunk rooms by skin color, just as the brothels were segregated. There were girls whose bellies betrayed just a hint of a swell, some who were far gone and out of breath, others flat-stomached, like May.

No one familiar, not yet. Would any of them be girls whom Faith knew, or who recognized her? She wasn’t sure if that would be a fortunate turn or not.

When the matron prepared to leave her, she did her best to show gratitude for all Miss Rhoades had done. Because she was, indeed, grateful. For the locks on the door and the window, she felt most grateful. She tugged Miss Rhoades’s striped skirt.

The matron met her eyes and smiled. Miss Rhoades wore her goodness plainly on her face. “You know, I’d say you do just fine without talking,” she told Faith, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You just wait and speak when you’re ready. Or not at all—makes no difference to me.”

A tear slipped down Faith’s cheek. Miss Rhoades reached for the hankie on the stool that held the washbasin and pressed it to both of Faith’s cheeks. “Mind you, leave the window open, so you don’t catch disease.”

She left, and Faith pulled the window shut and locked it. She settled in to snatch a wink of sleep before the dreams began.