Chapter 35
A fter Amiya finished her bath, Miss Lula took her to a musty bedroom and ordered her to get dressed.
The woman was civil toward her again. It was as if the violent incident at the bathtub was forgotten.
But Amiya had learned her lesson and was keen to avoid doing anything that would provoke Miss Lula’s anger.
She would behave submissively, follow the woman’s instructions to the letter, and stay on the alert for an opportunity to further her objective.
The bedroom was a wreck. Cobwebs wreathed the walls like curtains, and the two windows were boarded up. Old, sagging furniture—a chair, a dresser with a mirror—stood inside. A king-size, four-poster bed occupied the middle of the room.
The bed had been outfitted with fresh sheets. Amiya was tempted to lie down, but Miss Lula had other plans in store for her.
“You’ll put on that dress.” Miss Lula indicated a flowing, satiny red gown that hung on a hook next to the mirror. “The shoes, too.”
Amiya noticed a pair of black pumps standing on the floor, beside where the dress hung, and she wanted to groan. If those shoes didn’t fit, her misery quotient was going to skyrocket.
“Are those my size?” Amiya asked.
“They’re close enough,” Miss Lula said. Miss Lula opened one of the drawers—it opened with a harsh squeak—and removed a girdle and undergarments. “You’re close in size to the master’s last mistress.”
Dread stirred in Amiya’s chest.
“What happened to the last mistress?” Amiya asked.
“She was disobedient,” Miss Lula said. Her eyes gleamed. “He turned her over to the Overseer for punishment. We never saw her again.”
Amiya shuddered. Miss Lula shuffled to the doorway, putting her back toward Amiya.
“Go on and get dressed, lady.”
Fortunately, the clothing fit reasonably well, including the shoes, and all of the clothes were clean, smelling of a pleasant soap.
On the dresser, Amiya noticed a comb, brush, and faded containers of makeup, all of the items clustered at the base of a dusty oval mirror.
Leaning forward, she rubbed clean a spot on the glass with the heel of her hand.
She picked up the brush and stared at her reflection.
All dressed up and nowhere to go . . .
A sob swelled in her throat. She tried to choke it down, but it burst out of her, rocked her like an earthquake tremor, bringing forth scalding hot tears that slid down her face and spattered on the top of the dresser.
I can’t do this. I can’t pretend that I’m accepting this life. This is ridiculous! I won’t ? —
“Get it together, lady!” Miss Lula said from the doorway. “Crying’s not gonna change a thing.”
It was a reprimand that her mother had often lobbed at her when Amiya was a young girl, and the familiarity of it had the odd effect of calming Amiya’s abraded nerves.
Her mother had despised tears, though she had no compunctions about letting them flow in abundance whenever it suited her manipulative aims. If Amiya had ever wanted to cry, she had to do so in secret.
It would be the same here in Westbrook, she realized.
Amiya sniffled, sucked in a shaky breath. She found a silk handkerchief tucked on the corner of the dresser. She used it to blot her eyes and dry her nose.
As best she could, she brushed her damp hair. She thought of asking Miss Lula if they had a blow dryer but doubted the woman would have found her little joke amusing.
The makeup kit was old, but she was able to work with it. She applied blush and a small amount of the ruby-red lipstick.
“Put on that perfume, too,” Miss Lula said. “It’s the master’s favorite.”
Amiya picked up the glass bottle of what looked like an old French perfume, based on the faded letters on the front. It had a sweet, woodsy odor.
“When do I get to meet the master?” Amiya asked.
“Soon as it’s dark,” Miss Lula said. “He likes to have some alone time with a new mistress before she gets marked, to get acquainted.”
He sounds like a swell guy , Amiya thought, and had to suppress a giggle. How gentlemanly of him to want to meet before I get branded like a prize steer.
“Where is the master now?” Amiya asked.
“You said you were hungry. Do you want me to stand here answering questions that will answer themselves in time, or do you want to eat?”
Chastened, Amiya applied perfume to both of her wrists and dabbed a bit on her neck.
The only time she really wore fragrance these days was when she was going out with Nick.
Thinking about Nick, wondering when she would see him again, provoked another tremor at the base of her throat, and she had to set those thoughts aside.
She checked herself in the mirror one final time, liked what she saw, and approached Miss Lula at the doorway.
“Ready,” Amiya said.
Miss Lula assessed her from head to toe. Amiya caught a brief sparkle of desire in her eyes, but Miss Lula quickly looked away and gave only a curt nod.
She would not fool the woman again.
She followed Miss Lula downstairs. Navigating the damaged hardwood floor in heels was like walking a tightrope. While going down the staircase, she nearly lost her balance, and Miss Lula grabbed her arm and scooped her upright.
“You’ll get used to it,” Miss Lula said.
On the first floor, she guided Amiya into the dining room.
It was a large chamber, dominated by a long, round table that could have accommodated a party of twenty, and surrounded by chairs carved of mahogany.
A white tablecloth, tattered and browned at the edges, covered the surface, topped by a cracked vase from which bristled fresh petunias.
A chandelier wearing a garland of cobwebs swung from a chain above the center of the table.
Candles flickered on a pair of side tables.
No one was in the room, but Amiya heard the rattle and clatter of staff— not staff, prisoners , she reminded herself—working in the kitchen beyond a set of closed double doors. The air smelled of warm, delicious things.
Miss Lula pulled out a chair at the head of the table. “Sit, lady.”
“I feel as if I’m in the dining room at the Ritz-Carlton,” Amiya said.
Miss Lula’s gaze was dull, reflecting no recognition of what Amiya had said. How long has this woman been here?
Long enough to have no idea that the Ritz was a popular chain of luxury hotels, most likely, and Amiya found that deeply disturbing.
She settled onto the chair. Miss Lula put her hand on her shoulder and gave Amiya a squeeze that sent a hot current of pain down Amiya’s arm.
“Ouch, that hurts,” Amiya said.
“You’ll wait in here, lady, in this chair.” Miss Lula gave her a stern look. “I’ll go ask the staff to bring you some food.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Miss Lula, I promise.” For now , she thought.
Miss Lula nodded, took her hand off Amiya’s shoulder. While Amiya massaged her muscle where the woman had squeezed her, Miss Lula left the room via the double doors that led to the kitchen.
Amiya’s gaze tracked to the other doorway. It was ten feet to the entry hall. Perhaps another twenty feet to the front door. She could outrun the big, lumbering Miss Lula, probably even while wearing a pair of heels.
But there were others in the house, too, people she had not yet met. They might attempt to stop her. At this point, Amiya didn’t have a single ally who might help her escape.
He turned her over to the Overseer for punishment. We never saw her again.
She couldn’t afford to launch an ill-considered escape plan. The penalty for failure was too severe. She had to bide her time.
But she had to get out of here before they marked her.
Instinctively, she understood that she had to avoid the brand, at all costs.
The effect of the symbol on these captives might have been only psychological, but it was powerful.
Despite all her learnings, she wasn’t immune to the effects of such things: she could find herself living here like everyone else, with no hope of ever getting out, without so much as a memory of her life before.
I will not let that happen.
Across the dining room, the double doors swung open.
A slender, handsome young Black man entered, carrying a large white soup bowl from which fragrant steam rose. He wore tattered dark slacks and a white dress shirt with a faded maroon tie, his sleeves rolled up at the elbows.
His head was bald, which gave her a clear look at the “W” branded on his forehead.
“Good afternoon, lady,” he said, and smiled at her. His eyes were shy, but kind. “I brought you chicken soup.”
“Thank you.” She sat up straighter in the chair. “I’m Amiya. What’s your name?”
“Ossie.” He set down the bowl in front of her, unfolded a white napkin and a set of silverware: spoon, fork, and a knife sharp enough to slice a steak.
“Oh, like Ossie Davis,” she said, studiously avoiding staring at the knife. “The actor.”
“Uh, yeah.” He looked away from her.
She glanced into the bowl, saw chunks of chicken and vegetables swimming in broth. Her stomach ached with hunger.
“This looks delicious,” she said. “Are you one of the cooks here?”
“One of them, yeah.” He fidgeted with his tie and wouldn’t meet her gaze. “Oh, I’ll go get you some water. Be right back.”
The dress she wore had a small front pocket. Amiya slipped the knife inside, reassured by its coldness against her thigh. Whether Ossie had brought it to her by accident, she couldn’t be sure, but she was keen to take advantage of any opportunity to arm herself.
Amiya spread the napkin across her nap and examined the spoon. It was silver, and clean. The mansion might have been falling apart, but someone was washing dishes.
She took a sip of the soup. It was hot and tasty, and she had to check herself from lifting up the bowl in both hands and slurping it down like a beggar in a back alley.
Ossie returned with a glass pitcher full of water, and a tall glass.
“The soup is wonderful,” she said. “I really mean that. Thank you for bringing it to me. I was famished.”
“Okay.” He poured her a glass of water. He stood at attention beside the table as if he were her personal server. “The lady gets the best.”
“Other than working in the kitchen, what else do you do here?” Amiya asked. She sipped her soup.
“Whatever needs to be done,” Ossie said. “There’s always something to do.” He cast a sidelong glance toward the kitchen, a hint of anxiety glimmering in his eyes. “Miss Lula keeps us real busy.”
He doesn’t want to be here either , Amiya thought. She placed his age in the mid-twenties. He should have been finishing up college and embarking on a career doing something worthwhile, not bringing her soup and working in a house that needed to be flattened by a wrecking ball.
But after the debacle in the bathtub with Miss Lula, Amiya had resolved to be more careful. She didn’t know whom she could trust.
Still, this young man might prove to be an ally.