by Paula Volsky
Only she wasn’t. She was an adult, and free. Time to start acting like it.
“Father and Mother, I’m sorry you were offended,” she offered, carefully cleansing her face of all save courteous concern. “Another time you might be better pleased—”
“There will be no other time,” His Honor informed her. “I have listened at repellent length, and now I am prepared to render judgment.”
“I’m afraid it will have to wait, sir,” Luzelle returned. His brows and chin rose, and once again she found herself compelled to justify, to appease. “I’m sorry, but I can’t speak now. I’ve an appointment that I must keep.”
“That is no way to speak to the Judge,” Gilinne Devaire reproved. “You mustn’t be disrespectful, child.”
“No disrespect intended,” Luzelle countered, “but the truth is—and I’m sorry—but the truth is that you’ve come at a very bad time. See, this will explain it all.” She did not need to explain, but old habits died hard, and so she dipped into her pocket to bring forth the letter, which she extended to her father. He accepted as if granting a favor, and scanned the message frowningly. The last few words so far strained his credulity that he could not forbear reading them aloud:
“… and therefore, should you prove willing to undertake the venture, we are prepared to offer full sponsorship, underwriting all legitimate expenses, including personal transportation of every necessary variety and description, both expected and unforeseen; concomitant costs of baggage transfer; room and board, to ordinary and reasonable standards of comfort throughout the course of the race; and all justifiable incidentals and emergency expenses encountered en route.
“We anticipate a meeting with you upon conclusion of your next scheduled lecture at University Dome, one week following the date of this correspondence. At that time we shall expect a reply, and hope for an affirmative beneficial to all parties concerned.…”
“What is this new lunacy?” For a moment it seemed that Udonse might shred the offending document, but he chose to hand it back intact.
“It is an offer of government sponsorship.”
“Sponsorship. Is that what you choose to call it? Are you disingenuous, or simply gullible?”
“You note the letterhead, sir,” Luzelle replied steadily. “Ministry of Foreign Affairs—”
“I note the official stationery, easily purloined or imitated. Surely you are not so simple as to accept this proposal at face value?”
“It’s caught my interest, as well it might. The winner of the Hetzian king’s race will receive an enormous prize—a legitimate Hetzian peerage, which carries with it ownership of some ancient manor or castle or something, somewhere in the Low Hetz—and I’d like to know—”
“It is not a legitimate offer. That is all you need to know.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“The Judge knows best, dear,” Gilinne interjected. “Trust in your father.”
That’s rich, coming from you. He’s betrayed you a dozen times over, with his little seamstresses and shopgirls. And somewhere underneath all that wifely loyalty and respect, you must know it. Luzelle compressed her lips, holding the words in.
“This missive hardly carries the tone of an official communiqué,” His Honor stated. “Your correspondent, this self-styled Deputy Underminister—vo Rouvignac, was it?”
Luzelle nodded.
“The fellow’s connection to that famous and ancient House is very much open to question. In any event, you will note that the writer requests a meeting, but fails to specify an hour or location. If he is what he claims to be, then why has he not summoned you to the Republican Complex? The Ministry of Foreign Affairs stands close at hand, and its offices are spacious. Why do you not meet him there?”
“The hour and location have been tailored to suit my schedule. The Deputy Underminister vo Rouvignac does not summon me, but rather, waits upon my convenience,” Luzelle rejoined, determined to disguise her own misgivings.
“Do not try my patience with puerile absurdity. Have you at some point applied to the ministry for financial backing? Have you filled out the necessary forms, submitted the appropriate credentials and references, together with a written declaration of your proposed use of government funds?”
“No, I’ve asked for nothing.”
“You have, at the very least, notified the ministry of your desire to participate in this nonsensical race, this international goose-chase, this—”
“Grand Ellipse,” Luzelle supplied. “No, sir. I have expressed no such desire or intention.”
“And yet, of all the doubtless eager and well-qualified male candidates, you have somehow been selected, by unknown agency, to represent the nation of Vonahr in this asinine competition, presumably at the taxpayers’ expense. Tell me, daughter—does this strike you as probable?”
Luzelle was silent. Her father only voiced her own unacknowledged doubts.
“It is improbable to the verge of impossibility,” the Judge instructed his listeners. “I tell you once again, this invitation you have received is a ruse, and a clumsy one at that.”
“And the object of the ruse, sir?”
“Can scarcely elude the most limited understanding. Surely you will not wonder that the world questions your virtue. The immodesty and license of the life that you lead invite irregular solicitation.”
Luzelle felt the angry color burn her cheeks. She managed, with effort, to keep her voice even. “The life that I lead is blameless and useful.”
“The utility of pornographic public lectures is limited at best.” His Honor’s nostrils flared in distaste. “I regret the indelicacy of expression that your conduct obliges me to adopt.”
“That’s ridiculous, insulting, and completely untrue! There’s nothing pornographic about my lectures. They’re accurate accounts of foreign habits and customs, inoffensive to all but the hopelessly insular, as the reaction of the audience this afternoon certainly demonstrated!” She could hear her own voice rising, but found herself powerless to control it.
“I will not tolerate impertinence, daughter. You will address me with appropriate respect.”
“Then don’t attack my work unjustly, and don’t smear my character with false accusation!”
“Your work? What need has a spinster of good family to work outside of her father’s home? Are you quite blind to the embarrassment you cause your parents, or are you simply indifferent? As for your character, I should prefer to regard it as unblemished, but your actions constrain me to suspect otherwise. What unmarried female aptly described as a lady courts the attention of multitudes? Accepts financial remuneration in exchange for such public display? Lives alone in defiance of all established convention, and travels the world alone like some common adventuress? Where is your propriety, your sense of duty? Are you remotely capable of grasping such concepts? Do you dare to feign surprise that such libertines as this soi-disant deputy underminister regard you as their natural prey—an assumption no doubt reinforced by the unbecoming freedom of your manner, and the vulgarity of your appearance?”
To her horror, Luzelle felt the tears sting her eyes; tears that she would rather have died than allow him to see. She’d thought her father had long since lost the power to make her cry.
Her throat constricted. For a moment, pain and fury struck her uncharacteristically dumb.
Surprisingly, her mother came to her rescue.
“Oh, come—surely that is a little hard,” Gilinne remonstrated apologetically. “Luzelle’s appearance cannot rightly be termed vulgar—she is quite modestly and decently clothed.”
His Honor deliberated.
“There is perhaps nothing blatantly amiss with her attire,” he conceded at last. “But there is something in her air, her carriage, her general demeanor, that somehow contrives to suggest indiscretion. A thick and loosely draped shawl might improve matters, or else a capacious manteau—”
“Her figure is exceedingly well proportioned,” Gilinne observed mild
ly. “In that our daughter is blessed.”
“She need not flaunt her good fortune. Then there is the objectionable appearance of her hair—excessively abundant, ostentatiously curled—”
“The curl is natural. I remember when she was a baby, and—”
“Flamboyantly and improbably colored.”
“The shade is popularly known as strawberry blond, I believe, and the fault is entirely mine, husband, for my own mother possessed locks of just such a reddish gold.”
“Face swarthy as a laborer’s.”
“Browned by the sun of the Bhomiri Islands, but the color will fade. Perhaps nightly milk-rinses for her skin might—”
“Her facial expression is displeasing—it lacks innocence. I think the fault lies in the contour of her lips, which are too full for true refinement, and seem set in a perpetual pout.”
“Your own sense of justice, sir, will hardly permit you to blame our daughter for the shape of her mouth,” Gilinne suggested respectfully.
“I do not hold her culpable.” The Judge favored his wife with a penetrating glance, as if suspicious of veiled levity. “But the soundness of my judgment reveals itself all too clearly in the sorry reality of her present situation. She has, through her obstinacy and imprudence, stained herself in the eyes of the world, and the results are all too apparent. She is aging, unwed, and certain to remain so. She willfully threw away her best chance, and now all chances are gone.”
“But she is only twenty-five,” Gilinne appealed, “and still so handsome. Perhaps it is not yet time to give up all hope? I have it upon good authority that Master Girays v’Alisante has returned to the city—”
The name shot along Luzelle’s nerves like a jolt of electricity, finally breaking her paralysis.
“And the women pursue him in droves, but he remains unattached. I am convinced that our daughter’s declaration of heartfelt contrition could persuade M. v’Alisante to take her back—”
“That’s enough,” Luzelle interrupted, pent rage and humiliation finding outlet at last. “There are a few things I wish to say to both of you, so please listen. In the first place, I’d like to point out that I’ve no intention whatsoever of contacting Master Girays v’Alisante. I do not care to speak to him, much less implore his forgiveness. M. v’Alisante and I are strangers. Should he presume to call on me, I will not be at home.”
“Oh, but my dear—” Gilinne attempted.
“Secondly,” Luzelle continued, “much as I regret the inadequacies of my face and figure, my carriage, clothing, hair color, intellect, and character, I must inform you that I am tolerably reconciled to all of them, and foresee no major alterations in the immediate future. I trust you are not unduly disappointed.”
“I have prohibited insolence,” Udonse reminded his daughter.
“I will try to bear that in mind, sir. And yet, with all due respect, I intend to answer certain comments you’ve made concerning my work—”
“As to that, I am prepared to render my decision. Understand well that this mad folly of self-sufficient self-employment ends, as of today. I have been remiss in allowing an ill-conceived and misguided experiment to continue far too long, but now I correct the error. Henceforth you will conform to normal standards of proper conduct. You will live quietly beneath your father’s roof, submitting yourself to paternal authority. There will be no further appearances upon a public stage, and certainly no more of these abhorrent lectures. Should you desire an occupation, you may busy yourself with charity work, but you will accept no monetary compensation for your labors. You may still write, under a masculine nom de plume, but no manuscript will be submitted to a publisher before I have reviewed the text for suitability of subject matter and wholesomeness of content. Your infrequent excursions from the city of Sherreen will encompass the homes of those kinsmen willing to receive you, but you will not cross the borders of Vonahr—your days of unbridled vagabondage are over. Well, daughter—I trust I have made myself clear?”
“Perfectly, sir.” Luzelle took a deep breath. When she spoke again, she managed to keep her voice even and her expression spuriously calm. “And I intend to follow your example. Let me make it very clear indeed to you that I do not choose to submit myself again to your authority, now or ever. I will continue to work and to live on my own, I will travel as necessity and inclination dictate, I will lecture and write as I please, and I will certainly demand fair payment for my efforts. No doubt my choices will displease you, which is regrettable, but alters nothing.”
There followed a long moment of awful silence, broken at last by Gilinne Devaire’s scandalized whisper, “Oh, Luzelle—to speak so to the Judge!”
“Do not trouble to remind her of her duty, madame—it is a useless effort,” Udonse advised. “She is perverse, ungrateful, and rebellious by nature. You need only look into her eyes, to see there the pleasure she takes in defying her father.”
You’re quite right about that, Luzelle realized.
“But I do not think your complacency likely to prove long lived,” the Judge advised his erring daughter. “Your rejection of all filial obligation frees me of paternal responsibility. Until such time as you return to my house, all ties between you and your parents are severed.” His wife threw him a stricken, imploring glance, which he disregarded. “No longer a member of my family, you may expect no assistance from me, no recognition, and no support. Should you fall victim to injury or illness, do not come begging for money to pay the doctor. You’ll have nothing from me, not so much as a copper biquin.”
“I want nothing of yours!” Luzelle flared, her temper slipping its leash as if she were still seventeen. “I need nothing that you could possibly give.”
“There you vastly flatter yourself.” The Judge spoke with his habitual composure, but the icy clarity of his tone revealed the depth of his anger. “You fancy, I presume, that the monies bequeathed to you by your late maternal aunt ensure your lifelong comfort and security.”
And freedom, Luzelle added silently.
“Perhaps that would be so, had you the prudence to husband your inheritance wisely. But you have squandered and continue to squander prodigal sums upon your useless, senseless international jaunts. At the rate you spend, your capital must soon exhaust itself. And when it does, you will come creeping back home, beseeching my pardon and support. Would you not prefer to spare us both that embarrassment?”
Luzelle’s pulses jumped. Once again her father had demonstrated his damnable ability to verbalize her worst inner fears, but it wouldn’t do to let him know that the shot had hit home. Assuming an air of indifference, she replied, “The foreign excursions are a necessity, for they furnish the material I use in the books, articles, and lectures by which I earn my living.”
“I am to believe, then, that the income thus derived covers not only the cost of travel, but annual expenses as well? Shelter, food, fuel, clothing, and all the rest?”
Luzelle could feel the telltale color in her tanned cheeks deepen. Her whole face seemed to flame. The set of her father’s lips communicated utter disdain. She hated that granite mask of his, but could hardly bring herself to lie to it.
“The balance sheet is not yet showing a profit,” she admitted, “but my speaking fees are on the rise, my book sales are steadily increasing, and it’s reasonable to expect that some day soon, possibly within the next six months”—which is all the time I have left before my money runs out—“my income will equal or even exceed my—”
“You waste the inheritance you are clearly unfit to control upon a foolish, futile endeavor,” Udonse informed her. “You are no longer a green girl; it is time for you to recognize the reality of limited abilities and minimal talents that doom your efforts to inevitable failure. Presently bankrupt and facing eviction from your lodgings, you will admit defeat to yourself, if to nobody else. What then? Will you select a more lucrative profession, becoming in truth what so many already believe you to be?”
“Perhaps!” Luzelle fired back, and
inner demons prompted her to add, “The alternative you suggest is preferable to life beneath your roof, Father!”
Gilinne Devaire began to cry, the silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
Compunction seized Luzelle. “Mother, I’m sorry,” she attempted. “I never meant to grieve you—”
“You have grieved the two of us since the day you were born,” the Judge declared. “And now you shame us.”
Gilinne shook her head weakly, but did not venture to contradict him.
“Mother, please don’t cry. It was stupid of me to lose my temper, and—”
“Leave her alone,” His Honor commanded. “Have you not done enough harm? You will address your remarks to me.”
“There are many remarks I might gladly address to you, but they will have to wait.” Luzelle strove hard for self-control. “As I mentioned, I’ve an appointment, and I cannot afford to miss it. Sir, madame, I bid you good afternoon.” Dropping a small, brusque curtsy, she turned and made for the exit.
“One moment,” the Judge commanded.
Automatically she halted, and could have kicked herself for that unthinking obedience.
“As you choose to disassociate yourself from your family, I must require you to relinquish the surname to which you no longer possess legitimate claim,” Udonse charged her. “You will understand that I cannot allow public shame or scandal to touch the name of Devaire.”
Intolerable. Luzelle’s self-restraint flagged for a reckless instant.
“The name of Devaire,” she proclaimed, “will spread itself across the front pages of newspapers all over the world when I win the Grand Ellipse.” Head held high, she turned and marched from the auditorium. Had he ordered her to stay, she was prepared this time to defy him, but he did not offer her that satisfaction.
She emerged into the foyer, empty save for a quiet figure occupying one of the spindly plush-seated chairs placed along the walls. It was a man, discreetly dark clad, unremarkable, easily overlooked. His grey-streaked head was bent over a book, but he looked up as she came through the door and Luzelle glimpsed a long-nosed, studious face, pasty indoor complexion, and a flash of light glancing off wire-rimmed spectacles. At once he slid the book into a coat pocket and rose to his feet. She saw then that he was medium sized, narrow shouldered, and skinny. More than anything else he resembled an aging academic, at home in his present surroundings. He advanced, and it occurred to her to wonder if he had overheard any or all of the wretched exchange between herself and the Judge.