Be a Doll
Stephanie Witter
Somewhere deep in the country, away from prying eyes, stood Carter Manor. Two centuries old, made of ancient stones coming straight from England, it was hidden by the woods on the seven thousand hundred square feet park. For many a reason, this estate was more a castle than a manor, but the large plaque made of shiny bronze with a cursive inscription straight from another time made the name Carter Manor impossible to miss on the gigantic wrought-iron gates seemingly impenetrable.
For a long time, Carter Manor had been a family estate, but when the stock market crashed in 1929 and sent the Western World in a crisis, the Carter family almost lost everything. It took the Carter heir, young William Carter III, to find a unique idea to keep the family estate and replenish their bank accounts.
From then on, Carter Manor welcomed women, either poor or from wealthy upbringing, but all beautiful and smart to become the next wealthy and rich generation’s wives.
Carter Manor made and polished trophy wives.
Carter Manor became a doll making factory.
LILA
With my throat closing, I nodded, faking a composure I didn’t feel. Mrs. Jenkins, one of the maids at Carter Manor and a very strict woman with never a hair out of place, nodded back and promptly left my room, her kitten heels barely making a sound on the polished oak floor.
I knew what was coming and my stomach already revolted to the point that I wondered if I would need to run to the en-suite bathroom to expel the contents of my stomach. I took a deep, calming breath and closed my eyes.
I didn’t want to see the luxurious room anymore and the four poster bed covered by some overpriced comforter made of night blue silk and the old ebony furniture completing the poster picture of what a historical place such as Carter Manor should look like. I put my elbow on the secretaire on either side of the book I was instructed reading, something dreary that had my mind more wandering than riveted.
In half an hour I needed to meet Mrs. Stein in her office. I was in a whole different wing of the mansion so I had to get ready fast to face the ruler of this place, a woman I despised with everything I was made of.
Mrs. Stein, with all her regal attitude and the way she often looked down on me from above small reading glasses, was nothing short of a pimp around here. It was without saying that she wouldn’t put us on the streets in inelegant clothing for men without a good paycheck to pick us up. No, that wasn’t how things worked at Carter Manor.
Here, women between nineteen and twenty-five were taught everything to be deemed respectable in order to embrace matrimonial life with the wealthiest men around the world. Did it mean that we were taught to become independent women about to be launched in the dating pool?
No, of course not.
In this world, my world for the past four years, I had been taught to become a future trophy wife. I knew when to speak and when not to. How to stand and pick clothing depending on this or that event to complement my future spouse, how to take care of a house and the employees, how to host parties and many other things considered of the utmost importance in such a world.
In the four years since I arrived here, not once had I forgotten who I was, but I learned how to hide, unless I could use my spunk to my advantage. It prevented me to be engaged to a sixty-year-old man, a widow, who happened to also be subjected to some nasty rumors regarding sexual harassments and suspicion of rape on a minor, the daughter of one of his high ranked employee. It also helped me getting away from an engagement to a man in his forties who had lost his wife in very strange circumstances, but the man was powerful enough to stay away from the justice’s clutch.
The world of the wealthiest wasn’t always as glamorous as I would have thought before I landed here.
I couldn’t escape it, though. I would turn twenty-five in four months. That was the age limit around here. After all, men coming here to get a wife didn’t want a woman too old and mid-twenties seemed like a respectable age for a woman to marry and stand by her newly appointed husband.
I had escaped two marriages.
I wouldn’t be able to get out of a third one.
I knew all along that day would come, but while I had tried to prepare myself, I still didn’t know how to cope with it. In every aspect I should be ready to become a Mrs. something or other, but inside me, everything revolted. But maybe, if I played my cards well, and by that I meant with more subtlety than before, I could get that new prospect out of my way.
With my breathing back under control, I stood up. I looked down at my elegant outfit, simple brown dress pants and a cream blouse made of silk and a brown blazer on top. Nothing seemed wrinkled, thankfully. I didn’t have the time to change. I walked to the ancient full-length mirror next to the vanity and checked my reflection. Over the years, I became acutely aware of how my hair and makeup must look when I left the sanctity of my room.
I nodded at my reflection and left my room, my Louboutin heels of the same color as my blouse clacking on the centuries old oak floor.
Chin up, shoulders back, back straight and steps measured, I walked down the wing and promised myself I’d find a solution.
***
LILA
“This is your last chance, Lila,’’ Mrs. Stein said, her voice measured but I could still detect the hint of displeasure.
Poised in her big chair like a throne behind her ancient birch and maple Louis Philip style desk, she kept her posture elegant with her back straight, her head held high and her hands on top of the desk. For all intent and purpose, this woman was strict, from her behavior to her dressing style as the night blue pant suit demonstrated.