Free Roxy’s Story by V.C. Andrews Page A

waited for me to
     come around and then held out his arm.
    “M’lady,” he said, and I took his arm. He put his left hand over mine. “Good luck,”
     he said as we started up the stairs to the front entrance.
    The tall dark oak door opened as if by magic, and a tall, lean dark-haired man in
     a butler’s tuxedo stoodthere to greet us. He had long, spidery fingers and a narrow neck with a prominent
     Adam’s apple.
    “Hello, Jeffries,” Mr. Bob said.
    “Good evening, sir.”
    “This is Roxy Wilcox,” Mr. Bob told him.
    “Welcome, Miss Wilcox,” Jeffries replied without so much as relaxing his lips, much
     less smiling, and he stepped to the side.
    I felt as if I really were entering a palace. Directly ahead of us was an elegant
     baronial double staircase. There were large oil paintings on every wall. They looked
     like paintings you would see only in a museum. The large entryway’s floor was covered
     with a crimson rug interwoven with black stars. My eyes went everywhere because there
     was so much to see, so many things that looked like antiques.
    “Is this the way the house came?”
    “There is much that is vintage in it,” Mr. Bob said, “but Mrs. Brittany is something
     of a collector, too. She has brought paintings, furnishings, accessories from Europe,
     much of it authentic but refurbished. There are twenty-five rooms in this house, seven
     of which are bedroom suites.”
    “Mrs. Brittany is expecting you. Everyone is in the sitting room, Mr. Bob,” Jeffries
     said, as if he was worried we were taking too long. He led the way down the hall and
     paused in a doorway.
    “Take a deep breath,” Mr. Bob said. “You’re about to go underwater.”
    He escorted me to the sitting-room entrance. The woman who was obviously Mrs. Brittany
     didn’t lookolder than in her mid to possibly late forties, but she sat regally in an oversize
     armchair across from two very beautiful young women, one with absolutely gorgeous
     layered, shoulder-length, soft ebony hair and the other with short styled amber hair.
     They sat on a settee and turned to look at us. The one with amber hair had eyes a
     unique shade of green, and the other had hazel eyes. Although neither was what I would
     call heavily made-up, they looked as if they had faces painted on a canvas, their
     complexions smooth, everything about their petite features perfectly balanced.
    “Well, bring her in, Bob,” Mrs. Brittany said. “You’re standing there as if you expect
     to be announced.”
    He laughed and guided me farther into the room.
    Mrs. Brittany’s hair wasn’t as soft-looking. Actually, I thought she was a bit old-fashioned,
     wearing her light brown hair in a teased style. She was in a low-cut emerald-green
     dress with a string of small pearls around her neck and matching pearl earrings.
    “You can let her go now,” she told Mr. Bob. “I expect she can stand on her own.”
    He laughed and unhooked his arm from mine.
    I looked from Mrs. Brittany to the two young women and then back at her.
    She nodded. “Nearly good posture,” she said, and looked at the two young women, who
     nodded.
    Nearly? I thought. Not even my father complained about my posture.
    She stood up and approached me. I thought she was at least five feet eleven and probably
     five or sixpounds overweight, but she was very attractive with her cerulean-blue eyes, full lips,
     and high cheekbones. She circled me and then nodded approval at Mr. Bob.
    “Very nice,” she said.
    I didn’t like the way she said it, even though I saw his face brighten. It made me
     feel as if I was at a slave auction or something. Next, she would ask to see my teeth,
     I imagined.
    “Girls?”
    “Yes, I agree, Mrs. Brittany,” the one with amber hair said in a very clear, clipped
     British accent.
    “Absolutely, I agree, Mrs. Brittany,” the other followed. She sounded more like a
     New Yorker.
    Mrs. Brittany stood directly in front of me. “Introduce yourself,” she