I was nine years old when my lessons began in earnest. Before then, my education had been incidental. I watched behind curtains to see my mother’s slow, deliberate movements as she held court in her parlor. I listened to the lilt of her voice as she laughed at the right moments, absorbing the way men leaned in when she lowered her voice. But upon turning twelve, I was no longer simply watching. I was instructed to learn.
There were little books or tutors with dusty tomes. My teachers were the men and women my mother surrounded herself with and each were skilled in their own arts.
Madame Carlotta taught me poise. She taught me how to glide instead of walk, how to sit as though my spine were spun from silk rather than bone. “You must never slump,” she said, pressing a firm hand to the small of my back. “You are to command a room simply by standing in it.” She taught me the benefit of facade rather than truth.
Lucia taught me how to speak and play. Not just the words, but the melody of them. How to turn a phrase into a promise, or a breath into an invitation. She made me recite poetry until the words felt like honey on my tongue. Until I could hold a man’s attention with nothing more than a story.
My mother, however, was my most ruthless teacher. To disappoint her was a painful, unfathomable experience. She taught me the power of a glance, the weight of silence. The art of understanding what a man wants before he dares to ask for it. “Desire,” she told me, “is a currency. And we deal in the highest coin, Lara.”
At twelve, I was given my first gown. This was not a child’s dress, but something finer. Something meant to hint at the woman I would become. It was the deepest burgundy, similar to the shade my mother favored, and fitted tightly at the waist, the neckline modest but suggestive. I remember standing before the mirror, staring at the girl reflected there. She looked older, her face sharper. Her eyes held something just beyond innocence. My mother stood behind me, her hands resting lightly on my shoulders as she smiled toward me.
“You are becoming,” my mother said. “One day, you will be magnificent.”
I had wanted to believe her. I wanted her to be proud and for myself to feel special, chosen. But in the quiet hours of the night, when the house had settled into a hush of muffled voices, moans, and candlelit shadows, I wondered what it would mean to be magnificent; rather than trapped in a life that was not my own.
But I did not ask. I did not question. I only learned. Because that was what was expected of me.
Because that was what daughters did.
