Free Roxy’s Story by V.C. Andrews

your money for you. In short, you’ll lack nothing.”
    “Except a family,” I muttered, mostly to myself, but he had heard it.
    “No. Mrs. Brittany and everyone associated with you will become your family.”
    “And who will you be in this new family, my uncle Bob?”
    He finally smiled. “Just Bob, I hope.”
    We were leaving the city and heading for Long Island. I sat back, mulling over some
     of what he had told me.
    Then I sat forward. “What kind of money are we talking about?” I asked him.
    “Different girls earn different amounts, but Mrs. Brittany’s top girls make a quarter
     of a million, some maybe more.” He leaned forward to add, “Tax-free.”
    I stared at him. A quarter of a million? Tax-free? Did my father make that much?
    “You’ll vacation anywhere you want to in the world, often on a private jet taking
     you to stay at the most expensive resorts. You’ll meet the most interesting people.
     Believe me, you’ll feel like a princess. I often wish I was a girl your age with your
     looks,” he said, smiling.
    “Oh, you do, do you? You’re quite a salesman, Mr. Bob. You ought to sell cars,” I
     said dryly.
    I think my skepticism and cynicism were beginning to get to him, even to worry him.
     I had the feeling that his reputation and perhaps his income dependedentirely on his success when he brought someone new to this Mrs. Brittany. Maybe he
     was having second thoughts about me. I certainly had second, even third, thoughts
     about him and this whole idea.
    I didn’t pay attention to the route we took once we left the Long Island Expressway,
     but before long, we were turning up less populated streets with much bigger houses
     on much larger tracts of land.
    “Almost there,” Mr. Bob said when we made another turn and then another.
    Moments later, I could see an enormous mansion with a two-story portico entrance.
     It seemed to have acres and acres of land around it. The driveway looked as long as
     an airport runway, and when I looked to the right, I did see a helicopter. The trees
     that lined the driveway and the landscaping looked picture-perfect. It was as if I
     had opened some fairy-tale picture book and somehow stepped into it.
    “This is her house?”
    “Exactly.”
    “One woman lives here?” I asked.
    “There are often two or three of her girls either training here or visiting, among
     other guests from time to time, and the servants, of course. Her personal secretary
     is Ruth Pratt. She’s been with her since Mrs. Brittany left Europe. Of course, Mrs.
     Brittany has a villa in Beaulieu-sur-Mer and apartments in many other cities, like
     London, Paris, Madrid, and even Moscow.”
    “You said girls were here training?”
    “Absolutely. In a real sense, this is a college, acharm school like you’ve never seen or probably could ever imagine.”
    My eyes went everywhere as we approached the house. I saw tennis courts, fountains,
     and lots of statues that looked as if they had been imported from Greece or Rome.
     Perhaps he was telling me the truth about this woman.
    “This is an original Georgian mansion,” he continued. “The pastoral surroundings were
     planned as an integral part of it. Around the turn of the twentieth century, many
     very wealthy Americans fleeing urban industrial life built these estates. Mrs. Brittany’s
     was originally owned by John Temple Morris. He was very big in shipping,” Mr. Bob
     added. “Of course, Mrs. Brittany has modernized much of the inside. There’s an indoor
     pool, a sauna, a salon with a cosmetician and a hairdresser on call, a dining room
     that can seat thirty if necessary, and a full gym, among other things you’d expect
     to find only in hotels.”
    “It looks big enough to be a hotel.”
    “There are estates like this that have been turned into exclusive hotels.”
    The limousine stopped at the front of the mansion. Mr. Bob waited for the chauffeur
     to get out and open the doors for both of us. When he got out, he