“I didn’t check out of my father’s house just to enlist in another army,” I replied.
She held her gaze and then surprised me with a smile. “Army. I don’t think we’d fit any definition of that, but we have rules, discipline, and, most of all, expectations.”
She fixed her eyes on me and tightened the corners of her mouth. I could see her patience was wearing thin.
“Do you want to know more about all this, or don’t you?” she demanded.
I stared at her a few moments and thought. Nowhere in Mama’s or Papa’s imagination could either envision me sitting here in this mansion talking to this obviously very successful woman about becoming a high-class escort. How confident Papa must have been that first night and even days afterward that I would come running back, desperately pleading for his forgiveness. I was tempted to do this just to spite him, but even more so now, I was intrigued. Were those two beautiful young women in here when I arrived once just like me? How could I look at all this and not want to be part of it, especially with all that was promised to me?
“Yes,” I said. “I would.”
She nodded, and then a woman appeared, as if she had been waiting and listening to our conversation just outside the door. She was older than Mrs. Brittany, probably in her sixties, about my height, with beautiful gray hair pulled into a basic chignon. Mama often wore her hair that way. She told me “chignon” came from the French phrase chignon du cou, which means “nape of the neck,” but this woman looked more English than French. She stood so perfectly straight that I thought she must have a steel rod for a spine.
“Ah, Mrs. Pratt, just in time,” Mrs. Brittany said. “I’d like you to give our guest a little tour of the house and then bring her to my office when you’re finished.”
“Very good, madam,” Mrs. Pratt said. She had a very educated-sounding accent, reminding me of Mrs. Roster, who made her consonants so sharp she could cut your earlobes. This woman had a narrow face with thin lips and grayish-brown eyes beneath a pair of very stylish eyeglasses. I was up enough on women’s fashion to recognize a St. John dress. She was wearing one. Mama had two.
Mrs. Pratt nodded at me.
I looked at Mrs. Brittany. Either she wasn’t going to give this woman any more information about me or she already had told her what she knew thanks to Mr. Bob.
“Well, go on,” she said. “You don’t need my permission to breathe.” She laughed and then said, “At least, not yet.”
I rose quickly and followed Mrs. Pratt out of the sitting room and down the long, wide hallway.
“I hope it’s cooler out here,” I muttered. She looked at me but didn’t react to that.
“You can’t tell from the front of the house,” Mrs. Pratt began instead, speaking like a guide in a museum, “but Mrs. Brittany has added considerably to the original structure, which was considerable at the start.”
She looked at me in anticipation of some response. All I could think to say was, “Yes, considerable.”
We turned to the right and paused. She opened a door and flipped the light switch to reveal a fitness center as complete as any I had seen.
“Lance Martin is the fitness trainer,” she said. “He was on an Olympic swimming team. Mrs. Brittany insists that all her women be in the best possible shape. If you become part of the organization, you will undergo fitness training immediately and be put on dietary supplements. Mrs. Brittany’s chef, Gordon Leceister, is a registered dietitian, so you will be eating right most of the time.
“Now, if you look off to the right,” she added, nodding toward the fitness room, “you will see the tanning salon and spa. Olga Swensen is our masseuse. At one time, she had her own very famous spa in Stockholm.”
When I didn’t react, she added, “You know that Stockholm is in Sweden?”
“Of course,” I said.
“While the Swedes didn’t invent massage, their techniques are hig
hly regarded. You will have a massage daily in the beginning and then eventually weekly.”
“Weekly?” I asked. How long was I going to be there? She ignored me and flipped off the light. Across the hall were double doors that opened onto an indoor pool. It was lit, and I saw Camelia and Portia swimming with a good-looking young man who looked as if he didn’t have an inch of fat on his body.
“That’s Lance Martin,” Mrs. Pratt said.
Camelia and Portia, both in abbreviated bikinis, waved. I nodded. Mrs. Pratt saw the way I was staring at the three of them.
“Any relationships between Mrs. Brittany’s women and the staff are strictly forbidden,” she said. “That goes for relationships with men or women.”
I looked at her as if she was nuts, but she just turned and led me farther down the hallway. She opened a door on the left and again turned on the lights, this time to reveal a full beauty salon.
“Mrs. Brittany likes to rotate her beauticians and stylists periodically. This month, we have Claudine Laffette from Paris. She’s an expert at both cosmetics and hairstyling.”
“Does everyone come here to be made up and stuff?”