Chapter 29
M iss Lula led Amiya through the house. If Amiya had found it challenging to believe before she had been inside that people had lived in such a place, receiving a brief tour of the interior of the mansion had impressed that sense of disbelief on her more strongly than ever.
Wax candles provided light, and showed beyond a doubt: the place was falling apart.
The wide entry hall had gaps in the floorboards, and several sections had caved in, dropping down into musty blackness.
Chandeliers teetered from rusted chains or had crashed to the floor altogether.
The wallpaper was peeling away from the walls in desiccated strips.
“You live in here?” Amiya asked Miss Lula, who was proceeding through the wreck of a home with an air of indifference.
“All of us do,” Miss Lula said. She glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows arched. “So will you, lady.”
To hell you say , Amiya thought, but she didn’t dare to speak the sentiment.
Miss Lula had the frosty air of an old-school disciplinarian who wouldn’t hesitate to smack you across the face if you voiced a cross word.
The woman had yet to show her anything but mild civility, but Amiya was a keen judge of character—her work as a psychologist required it—and being in Miss Lula’s presence kept her on guard.
She saw others in the rooms they passed.
Mostly women, but she did see two meek-looking men.
None of them spoke to her, but all of them were engaged in tasks so pointless that it seemed the height of absurdity.
Scrubbing floors. Folding linens. Washing clothes in a big basin.
Delicious aromas wafted from one of the rooms they walked past, and Amiya reasoned that it had to be the kitchen.
“Something sure smells good,” she said. Her stomach growled.
“You’ll eat after you bathe and dress,” Miss Lula said.
She brought Amiya to a grand spiral staircase—well, it used to be grand. To Amiya, those canted risers looked like an accident waiting to happen. Part of the balustrade had actually peeled away from the staircase.
“Watch yourself, lady,” Miss Lula said. She gathered the hem of her dress in her big fist and began to ascend the steps. The staircase groaned and popped under her weight.
Amiya hesitated at the foot of the stairs. She looked for a safe path and didn’t see one.
“Don’t make me ask you twice,” Miss Lula said.
Amiya drew in a ragged breath, went up. She tried to follow the exact same route Miss Lula had taken, but it still felt as perilous as walking a plank on a pirate ship, and as she neared the landing, she lost her balance.
Cat-quick, Miss Lula reached out and grabbed her arm. She steadied Amiya and pulled her up as if Amiya weighed no more than a child.
“Thanks,” Amiya said.
Miss Lula nodded, released her hold on her.
She grabbed me as if it were nothing , Amiya thought. How could anyone be that strong?
The second floor of the mansion was just as dilapidated as the ground level. More broken chandeliers. A damaged floor. Ancient peeling wallpaper. Warped doors sagging on hinges. Cobwebs everywhere.
They passed musty bedrooms, stepped past an old painting that had crashed to the floor. Amiya glanced at the painting: it looked like a depiction of the plantation, Westbrook, in its former state of grandeur.
She coughed against a veil of dust that passed over her. She followed Miss Lula to a room near the end of the long corridor.
“You’ll bathe in here,” Miss Lula said, pointing.
Amiya looked inside: no one ever would have mistaken the chamber for a spa, but it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be.
A fat candle glowed on an end table, casting dim light over the smallish room.
A porcelain claw-foot tub stood in the middle.
It had been filled about three-quarters full with steaming water.
A nearby table held a bar of soap, a sponge, and a thick white towel.
A freshly cut red rose bristled from a faded vase.
“It’s nice,” Amiya said, and actually meant it.
“Like I said, you get the best we’ve got, lady,” Miss Lula said. She took a bathrobe from a hook on the sagging door. “Go ahead and take off your clothes.”
“Can I get a little privacy?” Amiya asked. “Please?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Miss Lula stared at her, and didn’t leave the doorway. “You haven’t been marked yet. There’s no telling what you might try.”
“All righty, then,” Amiya said. “So this is going to be like high school gym class all over again.”
Miss Lula didn’t respond to the remark, and showed no inclination to turn around. Amiya stepped past her, moved near the bathtub. Putting one hand against the rim of the tub for balance, she peeled off her shoes, then her socks.
“You’ve had a pedicure recently, huh?” Miss Lula looked at Amiya’s feet. “Red polish, no chipped paint.”
“Right, last weekend, for all the good it’ll do me now. I’ll probably have blisters from all the physical activity I’ve had today.”
Miss Lula kept staring at her feet. Her tongue poked out, swiped across her lips as if she were thirsty. Her gaze traveled up the rest of Amiya’s body, and there was no mistaking the interest simmering in her eyes.
So it’s this kind of party , Amiya thought, and was surprised at how little it bothered her.
Perhaps because it was something that, finally, she could understand.
If Miss Lula secretly craved to see some bare skin, she could give her a show.
She could give her a show she would never forget—and try to find a way to use it to her advantage.
Not until your survival is at stake do you realize what you might be willing to do to stay alive . . .
Taking her time, Amiya unbuckled her belt. Miss Lula watched her, her hands clasped together so tightly in front of her it was as if she were trying to keep them under control. Amiya turned around, putting her back to the woman. She bent over slightly at the waist, slowly rolled down her pants.
She heard Miss Lula pull in a quick breath and whisper, “Lord have mercy.”
Amiya tried to conceal her own trembling. She had Miss Lula heading in the right direction, but she had to play this carefully. If she hit a false note, or overplayed her hand, it would all blow up in her face.
“There’s a zipper at the back of my blouse,” Amiya said. She glanced over her shoulder, offered a demure smile. “Can you help me with it, please?”
Miss Lula hesitated as if she didn’t trust herself, but her eagerness got the better of her and she came into the room, her shadow falling over Amiya. She fumbled with the blouse’s zipper, managed to tug it down the track. Amiya could hear the woman’s quivering breaths.
Amiya turned around. Miss Lula stepped back, but remained close by. Amiya slipped the blouse over her head and let it drop to the floor. Miss Lula’s gaze never left Amiya’s chest.
Amiya unhooked her bra, slowly let the cups fall away. Casually, purposely avoiding Miss Lula’s eyes, she took her breasts in her hands, kneaded them a bit as if testing their firmness.
She stole a glance at her captive audience. A glistening film of sweat had moistened Miss Lula’s forehead. Good.
Amiya peeled down her panties and kicked them aside, too. Turning sideways, she stretched her arms above her head like a lazy, sunbathing cat. Miss Lula’s gaze was so hot Amiya thought she could feel it on her skin, like a heat lamp.
Under any other circumstances, Amiya would have been ashamed of herself.
She knew that people found her attractive.
She’d been getting compliments on her looks since she was a teenager, but she had never been one to use her physical assets to gain an advantage.
She always strived to get ahead by using her intelligence, personality, and hard work.
But if she had to use her body as a weapon to secure her eventual freedom, so be it.
After she had given Miss Lula enough of an eyeful to guarantee the woman a couple of restless nights, Amiya climbed into the tub. The water had cooled a bit, but still felt amazing.
“Oh, I forgot the soap and sponge,” Amiya said. “Can you please bring those to me?”
Miss Lula hurried forward and picked up the items from the end table. She placed them on the edge of the tub and waited there, hesitant.
“Thank you,” Amiya said. “Gosh, I’m really sore. So much activity today.”
She raised one leg out of the tub, water cascading along her thigh. Slowly, she flexed her muscles, letting out a soft moan that wasn’t entirely false.
Miss Lula was entranced.
Flexing her thigh again, Amiya asked, “Can you help soap my legs, please?”
She knew she was playing with fire then, but she needed to tease Miss Lula just a bit more to ensure the woman’s cooperation.
Miss Lula was kneeling at the edge of the tub before Amiya could finish her request.
“I wouldn’t normally do something like this,” Miss Lula said. “I’m not supposed to touch the ladies.”
“It’s only a bath,” Amiya said. She lifted her other leg out of the water, wriggled her toes, stretched her calf muscle. Miss Lula followed every movement with keen interest. “It’s no big deal.”
Miss Lula pulled her gaze away, looked behind them at the doorway.
“You can’t tell anyone I touched you,” Miss Lula said.
“It’ll be our little secret,” Amiya said.
Miss Lula took one of Amiya’s legs in her hands, ran her fingers along her skin. Amiya could feel the woman’s hands trembling, and despite herself she felt a twinge of power.
Carefully, as if handling a delicate piece of crystal, Miss Lula took the bar of soap and slid it across Amiya’s thigh, down to her calf, ankle, and foot.
“You are such a lovely woman,” Miss Lula said in a hushed tone. “We’ve never had anyone quite like you here. You’re like a perfect, beautiful doll.”
“How long have you been here, Miss Lula?”
A shadow came over Miss Lula’s eyes. “I shouldn’t tell you about that.”
“Our little secret, right?”
Miss Lula deliberated for a few heartbeats. “I can’t remember how long. That is the honest answer. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
“Have you ever wanted to leave?” Amiya asked.
Miss Lula’s gaze drilled into her. In a tight voice she said, “I love Westbrook. You’ll also learn to love it here if you know what’s good for you.”
“I don’t think I can ever learn to love a life of slavery,” Amiya said.
She recognized she was treading close to the line, and for a moment it seemed like Miss Lula would erupt, but having her hands on Amiya’s flesh seemed to pull her back from the brink. She reached for Amiya’s other thigh, soap in hand. Amiya let her have it, to reel her back under her control.
“Lady, your life here will be the envy of every other resident of Westbrook,” Miss Lula said. “You don’t understand how fortunate you are, the blessings you’ll receive.”
The blessings? This woman was so far gone that Amiya struggled to think of an adequate response.
“I don’t want to stay here,” Amiya said. She hesitated, then: “I’m not entirely convinced that you do, either. We could get away together, you and me.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and the instant the words left her lips, Amiya realized the gravity of her error.
“No one leaves Westbrook!” Miss Lula shouted, nostrils flaring.
Amiya cringed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Eyes flashing crazily, Miss Lula seized a fistful of Amiya’s hair. Amiya screamed. Snarling, Miss Lula shoved Amiya’s head underwater.
Amiya spluttered, warm water invading her nostrils and pouring down her throat. She fought to get up, to get air, but Miss Lula had her head pinned down beneath the surface, her arm as rigid as a steel pole.
Amiya’s lungs burned, limbs thrashing.
I’m going to die here, drowned in a bathtub in the middle of nowhere . . .
When blackness had begun to seep into the edges of her vision, Miss Lula suddenly let her go. Flailing, Amiya broke the surface. She gagged, coughed, drew her wet hair away from her eyes.
Miss Lula had gotten to her feet. With a sneer, she tossed the bathrobe toward Amiya and turned around.
“That will never happen again, you filthy little temptress,” she said. “Now, get dressed.”