It isn’t a question, and the temperature in the room seems to drop about twenty degrees while she talks.
“There are those in the Museum who believe a group of women cannot be trained effectively to do our work. I believe that you can. You can, and you will. Women are every bit as capable of killing as men. And you have advantages that men do not. You are all attractive young women, and your appearance means men underestimate you. You will use this to your advantage.”
She pauses to eye Mary Alice’s impressive decolletage with a raised eyebrow. “Some of your advantages are more apparent than others, but amongst the four of you, there is something to appeal to most tastes. You, for instance,” she says, pointing her walking stick at Helen, “you have an icy, Jacqueline Kennedy quality. Very refined. And you,” she says, gesturing to Natalie, “are gamine, like Audrey Hepburn.” Helen and Nat exchange quick smiles. Constance Halliday moves on to Mary Alice. “I think I need not enumerate your charms, my dear,” she says. “That sort of overripe body was very popular in the 1950s and there are still many men who prefer it to—” She motions vaguely to Billie, who stares coolly back. Constance Halliday wraps both hands around the top of her walking stick. The cane is dark, reddish wood, and the silver head is some kind of bird with eyes made of black glass beads.
“No, you do not have the obvious appeal of Miss Tuttle,” she says with a nod to Mary Alice. Billie is impressed that their mentor knows their names without asking, but she realizes there must be reports on each of them, files with all sorts of information, and that makes her uncomfortable.
Constance Halliday cocks her head as she studies Billie. “No, a less emphatic sort of attractiveness than Miss Tuttle,” she repeats, “but you look like the sort of young woman who enjoys sex. Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Men will sniff that out and it will be quite useful. They have a sixth sense for earthiness. But mind you don’t let it get out of hand,” she says severely. “Sex is a weapon, Miss Webster. Do not permit it to be used against you.”
She steps back. “Your rooms are upstairs—you will share. Go and put your things away and wash up for dinner. I will see you in the dining room in quarter of an hour.”
The foursome retrieve their bags from the front hall and carry them upstairs. Without much discussion, Mary Alice and Billie take one room while Helen and Natalie take the other. The rooms are simple, with twin beds and plain wool coverlets. There isn’t much in the way of furniture, and the rooms are clearly meant to share a decrepit old bathroom in the hallway.
Mary Alice kicks off her shoes and flops down on her bed. “I love this place. Helen says it’s just like something straight out of Winnie-the-Pooh or The Wind in the Willows. And Miss Halliday is a pip. I like her.”
“Well, she didn’t just call you a slut, so I get that.”
Mary Alice laughs. “I suppose that’s your superpower. Natalie and Helen can be the cool debutantes, playing hard to get, while you and I . . .” She pauses and does a sort of shimmy that would be fairly obscene if she were not wearing a bra.
After they wash, they go downstairs, ready for their first etiquette lessons. Miss Halliday sits them down for a formal dinner at a table heavy with silver and china. Helen looks completely at ease, but Natalie picks up a fingerbowl and pokes at the lemon slice floating on the water.
“What kind of soup is this?” she demands. “It looks like hot water.”
“Because it is hot water, Miss Schuyler,” Miss Halliday tells her. She sits on the front third of her chair, back straight as a ramrod as she perches like a hawk, looking at them with raptor eyes. “Your assignments will take you into all manner of company around the world, including into the highest diplomatic circles. You will be prepared to conduct yourselves appropriately,” she says, daring them to object. “My code name is Shepherdess because my aptitude is in looking after people, assessing their abilities and making certain they are cultivated. It is my task to prepare you, to anticipate dangers and make certain nothing takes you by surprise. My last squad with the SOE were the Furies, characters out of mythology. Do you know who the Furies were?” she demands, looking around the table.
Helen ventures an answer. “In Classical mythology, the Furies were the bringers of vengeance. They tortured people who had not paid for their crimes.”
A tiny smile plays about Constance Halliday’s mouth. “Homer said they lived in darkness and had no pity. He called them avengers, the daughters of the night. It was righteous anger that sustained them. It was a good name for my girls.”