“I meant more than health,” I said. “Your beauty.”

“Oh. Thank you, ma’am, but I’ve done nothing special.”

I studied her a moment, my suspicions triggered by how carefully she touched me and how concerned she was.

“You know about me, right, Dora? You know about my current state?”

She was silent. According to Garland, all the servants knew about me, so I assumed she did, but she had also obviously been told to keep it so buried in her mind that it was as if it wasn’t true. That was fine for now, I thought. Servants gossiped, and the gossip could leak out and find its way to my mother’s ears during these two days.

I closed my eyes and let her massage my neck and shoulders. She ran the washcloth gently over my shoulders and down my arms. When she reached around and glided them over my breasts, I was a little shocked, but she continued as if she was washing the tub and not me in it. I lay back so she could go farther down my stomach, and then she came around and gently lifted each of my legs separately to softly scrub over my calves and thighs. I looked at her face as she washed my body. She wore a soft, simple smile, as if she was washing the body of an infant, a baby, but I didn’t complain. This, I thought, was a life I might very well enjoy, the life filled with pampering and comfort.

When she was done, she stood there with a towel in her hands, quickly wrapping it around my shoulders. Even before I could think of it, she was drying me. As she knelt to dry my rear and reached in and between my thighs, I felt a part of me wanted her to stop. It made me feel ridiculous to be treated like real royalty, but another, stronger part of me settled back to enjoy it. I think I even moaned. My eyes were closed.

“You are very beautiful, ma’am,” she suddenly said, when she was on her knees wiping my legs and looking up at me.

“Thank you,” I said. I had never been good at saying that so it sounded like I meant it and had not expected it, but the appreciation I heard in her voice touched me.

She began to attend to my underthings, dressing me. I might as well be a storefront mannequin, I thought. So this was what Garland meant when he said she was good at looking after the needs of a young woman. I wondered for a moment if that grew out of her having to care for her mother, who was probably incapable of dressing herself at one point. I didn’t want to think that; it made her seem more like a nurse than a servant. Would she tell me more about her past? I wondered how truthful she would be, how revealing. Were we far from trusting each other? How long would it take?