Singer from the Sea by Sheri S. Tepper Read Free Book Online Page B

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