Read Online Singer from the Sea by Sheri S. Tepper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sheri S. Tepper
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Genevieve said, surprising herself. “It seems self-defeating not to let us use our minds.”
Mrs. Blessingham smiled rather ruefully. “Genevieve, it would be self-defeating among the commons. The poor are like foxes: they need intelligence in order to survive. The rich, however, have power; they don’t need good sense. Also remember that traditional things are sacred, and here on Haven, vapid noblewomen are traditional.”
Genevieve dropped a curtsey and left, her face flaming.
“It was Barbara, that cat. She told,” said Carlotta.
“No,” Genevieve said, trying to be fair. “I think it was one of the guests who heard me talking to the Colonel, and his questions were political, sort of.”
“I can’t understand why you’re so interested in politics. Where do you even learn about it?”
“I’m not all that interested,” murmured Genevieve, by now quite aware that any such interests should not be shared with her schoolmates, for they would tell their families, and their families would tell others. Besides, it was true that she wasn’t interested in politics exactly. She just wanted to know how things worked and what roles people played, and what the rules of the game were. The only real way to find such things out was to watch them or read about them.
To this end, she had haunted the library since soon after coming to Blessingham’s. It reminded her of the library at Langmarsh House: it was quiet, and if she daydreamed over an open book, no one thought she was strange. The librarian was a crickety little man with a funny beard who never bothered to learn their names and called each one of them “young lady.” He had a small office where he sat for hours at a time, reading periodicals, some from off-world, some from the provinces, most of them printed on paper particularly for nontechnological markets. Nothing of the kind was included in the reading material available to students, and Genevieve’s curiosity was piqued, particularlywhen she saw that the librarían stacked the older periodicals outside his door for the maids to take away.
After several days of anticipatory guilt, she filched one from the pile and carried it off to her room. There, for the first time, she read of other worlds as described by the people on them. She read of planets that had been settled with high hopes, only to fail, while others, settled in like fashion, succeeded. Here was Dephesia, fertile and flourishing; there was Chamis, no less fertile, but perishing nonetheless. Here was Barlet’s World, healthy amid its forests and seas. There was Ares, on which a mysterious thing had happened, on which a mysterious plague was even now infecting the population. Genevieve found this information totally fascinating.
Thereafter, Genevieve “borrowed” periodicals whenever she could do so unobserved, reading and rereading them in the privacy of her own room before returning them to the discard pile, thankful for the private room that let her read without being questioned. All the girls twelve or older had private rooms, for being alone was something girls had to adjust to. When one became mistress of an estate, one would need to occupy long stretches of solitude without being lonely. Otherwise, one might actually engage in improper behavior, start fraternizing with the maids, chatting with the butler, or flirting with good-looking stable boys, which was not the thing. Not at all.
“No matter how lonely you get, do not get into the habit of chit-chat with the servants.” So said Mrs. Blessingham.
And whom might one chit-chat with? One’s friends from school, who could be invited to come visit for a fortnight or a season. One’s parents or siblings, if any. One’s children if one had any and if they and oneself lived to a conversational age. Everyone seemed agreed that women should talk as little as possible, in order not to offend.
Or, Genevieve thought as she stood in her open window staring out at moonlit trees, one
Mrs. Blessingham smiled rather ruefully. “Genevieve, it would be self-defeating among the commons. The poor are like foxes: they need intelligence in order to survive. The rich, however, have power; they don’t need good sense. Also remember that traditional things are sacred, and here on Haven, vapid noblewomen are traditional.”
Genevieve dropped a curtsey and left, her face flaming.
“It was Barbara, that cat. She told,” said Carlotta.
“No,” Genevieve said, trying to be fair. “I think it was one of the guests who heard me talking to the Colonel, and his questions were political, sort of.”
“I can’t understand why you’re so interested in politics. Where do you even learn about it?”
“I’m not all that interested,” murmured Genevieve, by now quite aware that any such interests should not be shared with her schoolmates, for they would tell their families, and their families would tell others. Besides, it was true that she wasn’t interested in politics exactly. She just wanted to know how things worked and what roles people played, and what the rules of the game were. The only real way to find such things out was to watch them or read about them.
To this end, she had haunted the library since soon after coming to Blessingham’s. It reminded her of the library at Langmarsh House: it was quiet, and if she daydreamed over an open book, no one thought she was strange. The librarian was a crickety little man with a funny beard who never bothered to learn their names and called each one of them “young lady.” He had a small office where he sat for hours at a time, reading periodicals, some from off-world, some from the provinces, most of them printed on paper particularly for nontechnological markets. Nothing of the kind was included in the reading material available to students, and Genevieve’s curiosity was piqued, particularlywhen she saw that the librarían stacked the older periodicals outside his door for the maids to take away.
After several days of anticipatory guilt, she filched one from the pile and carried it off to her room. There, for the first time, she read of other worlds as described by the people on them. She read of planets that had been settled with high hopes, only to fail, while others, settled in like fashion, succeeded. Here was Dephesia, fertile and flourishing; there was Chamis, no less fertile, but perishing nonetheless. Here was Barlet’s World, healthy amid its forests and seas. There was Ares, on which a mysterious thing had happened, on which a mysterious plague was even now infecting the population. Genevieve found this information totally fascinating.
Thereafter, Genevieve “borrowed” periodicals whenever she could do so unobserved, reading and rereading them in the privacy of her own room before returning them to the discard pile, thankful for the private room that let her read without being questioned. All the girls twelve or older had private rooms, for being alone was something girls had to adjust to. When one became mistress of an estate, one would need to occupy long stretches of solitude without being lonely. Otherwise, one might actually engage in improper behavior, start fraternizing with the maids, chatting with the butler, or flirting with good-looking stable boys, which was not the thing. Not at all.
“No matter how lonely you get, do not get into the habit of chit-chat with the servants.” So said Mrs. Blessingham.
And whom might one chit-chat with? One’s friends from school, who could be invited to come visit for a fortnight or a season. One’s parents or siblings, if any. One’s children if one had any and if they and oneself lived to a conversational age. Everyone seemed agreed that women should talk as little as possible, in order not to offend.
Or, Genevieve thought as she stood in her open window staring out at moonlit trees, one
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