Singer from the Sea (6 page)

“Can you remember being a child? What is your earliest
memory?” the doctor asked, head cocked, hands busy taking notes.

“I try not to think about when I was little. It makes me sad.”

“You were how old when your mother died? Eleven? You should remember your mother very well.”

“I don’t think about her,” whispered Genevieve. “Really, really, I don’t.”

This was a lie. She remembered her mother often, but the remembered mother was the cellar mother she couldn’t talk about, the mother it was dangerous even to think about! Everything she remembered of the covenantly upstairs mother was implicit in the final scene: the shadowed room, the smell of sickness, though even then it was the cellar mother who had whispered, her voice full of desperate urgency:

“Remember what I have told you, darling girl. It will be hard and perhaps loathsome to you. I am sure the hard road is the one you must take. Yours may be the last generation, the one for whom all the practices were meant. Oh, I hope so. Remember our times together. Follow your talent. And, my love, listen for word from the sea!”

Those were her last words to Genevieve. No one else had ever called her darling. She tried to explain to the doctor without explaining. “I’d rather not care about things too much, doctor. When I do, it becomes … troublesome.”

On hearing this, the doctor frowned. The life expectancy among noblewomen was unaccountably short, and the doctor felt many of them died from this lack of involvement, this separation from life. She was sufficiently concerned that she spoke to Mrs. Blessingham about Genevieve’s detachment.

“Well, that dreaminess is so typical of dear Genevieve,” said Mrs. Blessingham disarmingly. “Her mother was much the same. Thank you, Doctor.”

Later she spoke to Genevieve herself. “Is it true you cannot remember your mother?”

Genevieve started to say yes, remembering in time that this was Mrs. Blessingham, who knew almost everything.

“No, ma’am. I remember her perfectly well. I just don’t want to talk about her.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of what she said when she was dying. She said I was to walk a hard road. She said it might be loathsome.”

“I see.” Mrs. Blessingham puzzled a moment. “So, since it will be hard and loathsome, you choose to take as little notice of it as possible?”

Genevieve flushed. Perhaps that was true.

Mrs. Blessingham, who almost never showed emotion, actually grimaced, as though with pain. “Genevieve, your mother was here. She was schooled here. I was an assistant here in those days, no older than she, and we were friends. It was her dying request of your father that you be sent here, to me. It was she who told me about your talent, for she had it, also.”

Genevieve gaped, hearing this with a shock of realization. “Oh, Mrs. Blessingham, if she saw my future laid out for me, she must have had it, mustn’t she?”

Mrs. Blessingham patted Genevieve on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about the doctor, my dear. She simply thinks you should be more involved in life. Well, perhaps the upcoming soirées will amuse you. Your father will be attending some of them, surely.”

Genevieve’s heart sank. Though marriage was deferred until later, girls became betrothable at twenty, and all students over twenty attended the soirées. Elegant suppers were served; there was dancing or entertainment; and the students were paraded before their parents and potential suitors. Oh, no doubt the Marshal would attend, and Genevieve’s sagging shoulders betrayed her thoughts as she walked away while Mrs. Blessingham silently berated herself for having mentioned him.

Whether Genevieve loved her father or not, she desperately wanted to please him, as life was infinitely easier when the Marshal was pleased. In this effort she sought Glorieta’s help in deciding what she should wear to the first soirée, which her father was sure to attend.

“Wear the blue. It makes you look about thirteen. The younger you look, the more indulgent the papa.”

“I don’t want him to be indulgent, Glory! I just want him to be … satisfied. If he’s satisfied with me he doesn’t … pick at me, and when he picks at me, it’s just … horrible.”

Glorieta put down her book, revealing an unhappy face and eyes that looked swollen from crying. “Is he bringing anyone?”

“The dinner list says he is,” Genevieve said, pretending not to notice Glorieta’s face, which set off alarms in her mind.

“Well, now that you’re twenty, it’s probably better if you don’t look thirteen. Here he’s spent all this money, sending you here for years and years, and if you don’t even look grown-up he’ll wonder why he bothered. Better wear something very grown-up, show your tits and be Duchessy.” Tits, shoulders, and arms which were carefully covered at every other time were shown off at soirées.

“Like?”

“Like the brown satin with the blush ivory roses that just barely cover your nipples. The one that matches your mahogany hair and your nut-brown skin and shows off how nice and round your front is. Tits are important to gentlemen, you can gild them, just a little, and the dress is very regal.”

“I do rather like that one.”

“Fine. Then you’ll be comfortable in it, and life is so much easier when one is comfortable.” She said this with a twist of her lips, as though the word meant more to her than she was saying.

The day of a soirée was spent in readying oneself. Bathing. Grooming. Having one’s hair done. No liquids after noon—one simply couldn’t run off and pee while wearing an evening gown—but a little snack late in the afternoon, just a bit, so that one wouldn’t collapse from hunger during the presentations. Then, dressing. Makeup. Genevieve’s satin brown skin, inherited from that long ago Dark Queen, needed very little makeup; just a gloss on the lips, a touch of blush on the cheekbones and a bit of gilding on the curve of the breast to draw attention to the nipples, barely hidden by her gown. Her complexion, brows and
lashes were perfect on their own, and nothing could be done to disguise the Nose.

Gowns and girls (in that order of importance, said Barbara) were assembled in the reception rooms by sunset, and the guests began to arrive shortly thereafter. The girls moved into the reception Une when their own families or guests were announced. After joining Mrs. Blessingham in greeting their guests, they moved away so that other girls could take their places. Genevieve saw her father’s carriage from the terrace, and she was standing at Mrs. Blessingham’s left by the time the butler announced the Marshal, Lord Dustin, and his equerry, Colonel Aufors Leys. She looked up, suddenly aware that virtually every girl in the room had also looked up and was not looking away.

They were not looking at the Marshal, who was his usual impeccably dress-uniformed self, the black of his bemedaled and gold-braided jacket serving as proper setting for his long, vertically grooved face, each set of grooves delineating one small fold beneath his chin. The man everyone was staring at was beside him, and Genevieve was staring too.

“Oh, my,” she said to herself. “Oh, my.” She almost started to applaud the casting before realizing he was not an actor but a real person. Hair like a sunset and a lot of it, springing up from his forehead in a curly red thicket. Darker brows. Lean, but oh, such shoulders, and what straight, athletic-looking legs! He was obviously the lead character in this scene, and he was coming toward her.

“Mrs. Blessingham,” her father intoned, bending over her hand. “Genevieve. May I present my equerry, Colonel Aufors Leys.”

Genevieve dropped a curtsey, murmured an acknowledgment, felt her hand drawn into her father’s, and was led away with the paradigm close behind, their feet raising little dust puffs of whispers. They sat at a table near the orchestra. They sipped wine and were served hors d’oeuvres. The Marshal excused himself and went to speak to an acquaintance at another table.

“So,” said the Colonel without preamble, “How do
you think we should handle the Frangían situation, Marchioness?”

If her father had been there, she would have smiled and murmured something about knowing very little about the Frangían situation. If the Colonel had been older, if he had said it in a teasing voice, she could not have replied at all. Colonel Aufors Leys, however, asked the question in a matter-of-fact sort of classroom voice, and she answered without thinking, for in this particular play, which seemed to be a new one, she knew the line.

“I think we ought to leave them completely alone.”

The Colonel choked on his wine. “I see,” he murmured, around his handkerchief. “The Lord Paramount is related to the displaced Duke of Frangía. He wishes his kinsman to be returned to the ducal palace. I don’t think he would care for that advice.”

“What the Lord Paramount says may have little to do with reality,” she responded, still without thinking. “If he and the Duke were patient and kept any new converts out, the Frangians’ very strange religion would wipe them all out before long. Since the Frangians’ deity, the
Great Whatever
, is worshipped by refusing to toil, since the Frangians do not have children because children require toil, their population must be getting elderly. Also, they’re not at all militant. They’d be easy to control if the Lord Paramount really wanted to do so.”

“If?” murmured Aufors, his brows lifting in wonder.

“Yes. If. I have never heard it alleged that the Lord Paramount is a patient man. So, it must be that he has some good reason for talking about controlling the Frangians while not doing it. Though he fulminates against Frangía a good bit, probably to show support for the duke, he lets the people come and go as they like. He lets them make converts and keep their society alive, so he must have a secret reason for doing so. If he has a secret reason, then the last thing he would want is advice from someone who doesn’t know his reasons.”

“What would you tell him?”

“I’d tell the Lord Paramount he has a much better grasp of the situation than anyone else, and he must do what his royal wisdom dictates.”

The Colonel stared at her, mouth slightly open. Then, “What reason might he have for letting them alone?”

“I’ve never thought about it,” she said honestly, proceeding to think about it for a long, slow moment. Then she nodded, saying, “It is probable the Frangians do something or provide something that the Lord Paramount considers useful.”

The Colonel blinked gravely at her as he considered this.

Genevieve returned his look, unaware that they were staring at one another. She enjoyed looking at him, and she was pleased to have been able to answer his questions. She was quite sure what she had told him was correct. It was not one of those visions that arrived suddenly in a hissing radiance, but it was the only answer that took into account everything she knew. It was really only a little more complicated than foreseeing the moves in chess.

The orchestra began playing a waltz.

The Colonel had a very thoughtful expression on his face as he rose, bowed, and asked, “Would you care to dance?”

She didn’t care to, really, because she had to fight her tendency to hum along with the music, but seeing daughters dancing was one of the things parents paid for at Blessingham’s, and no doubt her father would approve her dancing. She nodded and accompanied him onto the floor, where he held her firmly, never stepped on her feet, and was blessedly silent, which she preferred. Dancing and carrying on conversation at the same time was very trying.

Since the Colonel didn’t try to make conversation, whenever he reversed or turned Genevieve could look at the other dancers. Carlotta was dancing with Tomas, the two of them seeming rather bored. Glorieta was with Willum, the same expression on their faces that Genevieve had noticed before. It was a wounded look, with an admixture of fear, revulsion, and pain. It wasn’t an expression that belonged in a ballroom, and Genevieve spun away on Aufors’s arm, telling herself she had not seen it. During the next dance, Glorieta was with Tomas and Willum was with Carlotta … no! Willum was with Barbara!

She made a sound, for the Colonel drew her closer and asked, “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” she murmured. “I was just surprised to see … one of my friends dancing with the betrothed of … another of my friends.”

He looked across her shoulder. “The young lady in green?”

She nodded, ever so slightly.

“The girl’s a flirt,” he said, softly. “She’ll get herself into trouble.”

Genevieve surprised herself by saying, “I think Barbara would welcome trouble. She is not of the nobility and she gets awfully bored trying to be covenantly.” Then she bit her lip, confused by the strange look he gave her.

Two waltzes and a country dance later, Colonel Leys’ attention was drawn across the room, where the Marshal was preparing to leave. The Colonel bowed his thanks, then, turning so that his face was hidden from the Marshal, who awaited him in obvious impatience, he said:

“I have an apology to make, Most Honorable Marchioness.”

“Not at all,” she murmured, her eyes on her father, who was beginning to fume.

“Please. I teased you in asking those questions. I expected only the usual, a gush of uninspired coquetry with no thought behind it and no sense in it. I was mistaken. I ask your forgiveness for you are … a very intelligent … ah, person, Most Honorable Marchioness. I hope we will meet soon again.” He bowed, kissed her hand, turned on his heels and went, leaving her standing quite still against the blue velvet draperies of the terrace arch, her mouth slightly open, and his lips still burning on her hand as though he had somehow left them behind.

Carlotta came over, full of questions, to which Genevieve gave monosyllabic answers. She noticed a sotto voce spat going on between Glorieta and Barbara, so instead of joining her friends for supper, she said her good-nights while the soirée was still going on.

She was curled up in bed with a book when, much later, Carlotta and Glorieta burst in upon her.

“Oooh,” cried Glorieta. “Wasn’t he something! Wherever did your father find that one, Jenny?”

“He’s Father’s equerry,” said Genevieve.

“What did he say to you? What did you talk about?”

She hesitated a moment before replying. “All he did was stare at me and ask strange questions.”