Salvation of Ignorance - Chapter 9.2: Can You Not Think For Yourself?

Salvation of Ignorance - Chapter 9.2: Can You Not Think For Yourself?

"'Governess'?" Lucrecia's brows flexed momentarily. Then turned to the corner once more. "I hadn't realized the colonies were so...radical."

Giving up on the friction from shakes, Phoebe's body numbed under the stale air.

"Your son--," Lucracia's head whipped back as Phoebe replied, causing the later to break for a swallow. "Homer...thought it a novel idea."

Pursing her lips, Lucracia glanced back at Mima while the English woman's face was still toward Phoebe.

Then, Lucrecia raised a hand to Mima. "Well, I shan't have a governess blending with my corner. Come into the light, dear."

Each creak, thereafter, increased in volume. Then ceased as a shadow entered Phoebe's peripherals.

"Well? Won't you sit, or can you not think for yourself?"

Phoebe made an effort to expand the available option for Mima. The shadow rested to the right of Phoebe.

"How do you call yourself?"

"Mary, ma'am," Mima said, giving her Christian name.

"And how do you strategize your teachings?"

The only creaks in the shared furniture were caused by Phoebe.

"Mr. Barrettmore 'as me given a teachin' of 'is likin'."

The clock ticked seven times.

"Which consists of?" Lucracia inquired.

Mima always complied. "He says I oughta be learnin' 'em letters and readin' 'em and--."

"You read?" Lucracia raised her sculpted brow.

"I infer some."

Lucreacia pursed her lips. "Well, you know 'infer', so I'll credit you that."

Mima examined her lap.

"Well, is that all?"

"No, ma'am," Mima said to Lucracia's shoes, "I be learnin' her 'em modern languages and--."

"Oh? Tu parles en français?"

Lucrecia was looking at Phoebe now. The later on the verge of detaching her abdomen.

"Euh...ouai. Une petite, mais...je..." Realizing too late that she oublier'd 'only', Phoebe regretted attempting to add an additional sentence. She ransacked her mind to find an alternative wording. "Je...je ne suis pas...euh...muy--." Spanish. "Más." More Spanish. "Muchos." Also Spanish. "Je ne suis pas...bien...á parler il."

Lucracia blinked with her brows too close to the bridge of her nose. Then she glanced back to the governess. "What were your credentials again?"

"I 'adn't given 'em, ma'am."

"Yes, I recall. I'm asking now."

Phoebe's knuckles went white with the folds of her dress between her fingers. Air moisture condensed comparatively against her skin. She considered asking to remove the stale air, but didn't have the heart to reach down her throat and fetch the words.

Lucrecia reexamined Phoebe once more before the later realized many of her own facial muscles to be clenched.

The English woman examined her lap to the point that her expression was out of view. Her hand slid over the other. "My apologies," Lucrecia began, "I'm sure your father has had enough experience with an erroneous upbringing to guide you otherwise."

Phoebe released an unknowingly held breath. The American girl hated hypocrisy and she was about to commit the one act that she dreaded others committing toward herself: prejudice.

Her fear of being judged had blinded Phoebe to the concern behind each prompting. Like daughter, like father, Phoebe could see where Homer may have went astray. Though, one issue still concerned her.

It was still the social norm that religion, law, and economics supported racial bias. Phoebe had learned to coexist with such a mentality to support her pacifist lifestyle, but it succeeded in killing her already impossible-to-maintain, conversational abilities. However, a racist made only a fraction of a person. Regardless of her displeasure in sightings of the trait.

"I'm sure he's made a few errors of his own." Phoebe added a giggle at the end, in hopes that Lucrecia would understand the humor. Or pretend to.

Her grand--Lucrecia sought Phoebe's hand from across the coffee table. There was a strong urge to crawl into the elder-lady's lap, but it was quelled by the fear of harming the brittle woman. Then reasoned against by the requirement of abandoning propriety to commit the act.

Lucrecia struggled to keep her lips from expanding their northern corners with her eyes intent on the junction. "Well, your father certainly had skill in raising my granddaughter."

Phoebe giggled unattractively, but Lucrecia never severed the conjunction.

"I--." Lucrecia's voice cracked and Phoebe watched her with genuine curiosity. Then straightened her back and looked anywhere but where her grandmother's hand grazed over the outline of her index finger. Partly in result of every nerve down her back sparking in response.

"I'm under the impression you've read at least one of my letters, and--," Lucrecia stopped to smile at Phoebe's bobbing head of confirmation, "--and hopefully this doesn't come to any surprise--or offense--to you, but...I...Homer never told me your--."

"Phoebe. Phoebe Mae. You know my surname. Is it true she's my great-grandmother?" Phoebe finally breathed.

Her grandmother actually laughed. The kind of laugh as if she was amused with her kin, rather than at her expense. "You share her name, yes. How kind of your father to honor her."

"I always did find that odd," Phoebe the talking volcano continued. "He rarely spoke fondly of family, but still named me after--."

In her excitement, her arm grazed Mima's and her gift of conversation returned to the gods. Phoebe stiffened, and returned her hands to her lap.

"Well, I like to believe he was still fond of certain aspects of his childhood," Phoebe altered the finale of her tangent.

The topic died then, which Lucracia thought to be a good opportunity for tea. But as their china clinked, the stale, improper removal of the taste of the previous conversation still lingered on Phoebe's tongue.

"You have a lovely home."

"I do hope you will feel at home here," Lucracia said into her tea.

Phoebe ungraciously lowered her cup upon its saucer.

"What is it dear?"

Mentally crumbling at the easy slip of an endearment, Phoebe caught her lower lips with her teeth. It was very rare that someone asked that she spoke her mind. She never minded the lack of intrusion.

Her eyes sunk to her lap where she ceased the intimacy between her hands and the china. "I--uh...my father wishes that I return in time for next year's season."

The white elephant suffocated further conversation.

Expanding her lips again, Phoebe glanced back to her grandmother and added, "But I'm sure I would."

Lucrecia completed the siphon of her tea before demonstrating how to properly lower a cup. "Well, then let's not waste what conversation we have left on your father."

London was a very grey city. Not a single green blade swayed in the wind and the buildings were a lifeless conjunction of the two extreme spectrums of monochrome. In addition, if it wasn't raining, it was riddled with puddles.

It was a fine, non-sky-mourning, Autumn morn that Phoebe chose to see what else the city had to offer past what she had seen from her window. Although growing affiliated with her new ability to function on minimal slumber, the morning fevers were impossible to grow accustom to. So, the cool London air was a welcome comparison to the humid Virginian air.

On her adventure, she came to learn of a new little undesirable quirk about London: the housing were kin. Or appeared to be kin. Or Phoebe had been circling the same lot while her grandmother's home was removed for some peculiar reason. Which was unfortunate, considering that Phoebe's feet were beginning to suggest that she make her way back.

Phoebe espied some vacant steps before a seemingly empty building and chose to rest her feet momentarily as she mentally retraced her steps. Wrapping her favorite jacket from home around her, she huddled into herself. As her retracing seemed to only prove to confuse her, rather than aid, she began to find difficulty concentrating with the way her jacket and dress clung to the little beads of sweat that had pooled over her venture.

She considered removing her jacket, but the once inviting air was now a bit more than her liking. And should a gust of wind pass by, it would chill any remaining beads of moisture. Clinging to her jacket could no longer detain the London air. Her skin puckered.

Phoebe tried to raise her head and keep a look-out for anyone else enjoying the weather. Eventually, someone would come and she could ask them for directions. Until then, she received what warmth she could from her jacket and kept looking. Then she would rub her hands together and look again. Her hands began to shake, so she placed them in her jacket while she continued looking.

Teeth chattering, she considered relying on herself to find her way back, but the wind began to howl again. And she had shelter on the stoop she occupied. And there was no telling how long she would be walking in that wind. And her teeth were chattering. And...

"Miss Barrettmore?"