Only Sofia-Elisabete

by Robin Kobayashi

  To substantiate her claims, she made old Mr. Munro add a line that read, “I am not married to a blue-stocking, nor am I henpeck’d.” He initialed it with a big daunting M.

  Brodie gravely told us, “The governor has spoken. He can be an intimidating man—you don’t want to clash with him.”

  Then he opened Letter 4, which was written in long erratic sentences. Old Mrs. Munro accused me of having a violent Spanish temper. “I read your letter, Brodie, about Kitt’s bruised cheek. Well! How DARE that Spanish vixen strike my boy—wicked, wicked girl!—and fill him with shocking impious thoughts, and corrupt him—yes! yes!—and seduce him—yes! yes!—into marriage while he was in a FRENZY of blind passion,” cried she, in a fit of motherly-devotion.

  Old Mr. Munro concurred. He wrote, “As the head of this family, I do not approve of this improvident union. He who dares to fly in the face of parental authority must accept the consequences. To wit, I forfeit forever my friendship and affections to Kitt as his father.” And he initialed this with an M, underscored twice in a heavy hand.

  “Well, my boy, it seems you’re to be cut off,” said Brodie, after a pause.

  Kitt frowned. “What plump fibs have you told my mother?”

  Yes, how could Brodie have betrayed us? I ought to kick him in the niry-nary.

  He replied, “I’ve just stated the facts, and I let her work out the missing details. It has long ceased to amaze me how, if given the chance, people choose to think the worst of their fellow human beings.”

  “Yes, how true that is,” said Kitt, drily, but Brodie shrugged him off.

  “If she wasn’t hyp’d at the moment, things might’ve turned out differently. Who knows?”

  How was it that Kitt could remain on good terms with such a brother—a vexatious young man, a stirrer-up of trouble and arguments? Later that evening, while Kitt and I read in bed, I declared that Brodie was monstrously mean and unfair, and that he, a gossiper-about-town, would surely tell everyone, including his great friend Gummy, that I had shot someone.

  “Brodie has his faults, but we still love each other as brothers and he gave me his word,” said he, rather defensively.

  I do believe I offended Kitt. Unfortunately, I learned too late that you mustn’t criticize someone’s brother, no matter how horrible, boorish or annoying he is, because chances are those brothers will stick true to each other, and then you’ll look like a regular fool after you’ve put your foot in it. I was thinking this, and still somewhat hurt that Kitt had taken Brodie’s side and not mine, when he put away his book. He turned on his side to gaze at me with his big soft eyes.

  He said, “Brodie and I share the same fate, that of being younger sons. We must make our own way in the world, given that my father plans to leave his business to our eldest brother Dilly. But something has changed. A distant cousin, who is childless, has settled upon Brodie a considerable allowance.”

  “Brodie has become a young man of new-found wealth.”

  He nodded. “With the independence settled upon him, my brother has generously offered to pay for my tuition and other expenses so that I can go to a university. He has opened up the world for me.”

  I could scarce believe it. “I had thought so badly of him. But Brodie loves you.”

  “He knows of my secret interest in medicine. Ever since I was at Stonyhurst, I dreamed of studying at Edinburgh. But I dared not think about it, given my father’s hatred of physicians and his constant demands that I work for my uncle.”

  Old Mr. Munro was a physic-hater? The “us” in me spoke her mind at once. Kitt had healed my wounds when he found me in the desert. He was good at it.

  “We must go there, then, to Edinburgh, so that you can study.”

  Stroking my cheek, he said, “We’ll be poor as mice, you know, while I complete my medical studies and even after that, for many lean years, until I can establish a practice somewhere.”

  “I don’t mind it, as long as I can buy sweets now and then.”

  He laughed softly and then turned serious again. “But, what of you—what is your dream?”

  No one had ever asked me this. My mother said that marriage and having children were my only purposes in life. She knew not, nor did she care that the ilustradas, the enlightened Spanish women, thought otherwise. Their dream of equality had died with them, suppressed by their idiotic king. But had it really? Dreams, like timeless stories, wander in a boundaryless world, one not confined by time or space. I stared at Kitt in wonderment, daring myself to believe it, daring myself to write my own story.

  “I wish … to be a healer of some kind.”

  “An herbalist?”

  And then I said something that surprised even me.

  “If only women could be apothecaries, I’m certain I could be good at making potions.”

  He regarded me for a moment. “In a town in Wales, where I traveled once, I met a reputable female apothecary of the name of Driscoll. She sold me various tinctures, pills and powders.”

  “How could she be an apothecary? A woman would be denied a license.”

  “Mrs. Driscoll was the widow of an apothecary, and she continued on with his business.”

  Astounded, I replied, “Oh! But I haven’t any family in the apothecary’s trade.”

  “You have me. Some physicians are also surgeon-apothecaries in order to make a living. Why don’t you serve as my apprentice, just as Mrs. Driscoll once did for her husband?”

  “We can work side by side to heal people?”

  “Oh, aye”—and his lips curved upwards—“but first, you must pass my very difficult examination.”

  In that moment, I resolved to study hard and to apply myself. No more lazy-bones. I had never wanted anything so much. And once I passed Kitt’s examination, I vowed to myself that I would be the very soul of industry at my profession. My profession!

  “I wager that I will pass on my first attempt,” I boldly stated.

  We shook hands, whereupon he pulled me close. He cherished me in his special way—sweetly at first, and then energetically. There would not be much sleep tonight on the attic story at 15, Hans Place.

  “I haven’t slept a wink!” complained Brodie. “I feel like the deuce.”

  He groaned miserably. Though he was a grumpster this morning, just like every morning, it didn’t stop him from eating breakfast, especially today. Saturdays were Scottish breakfast day at 15, Hans Place. To revive himself, he drank down a strange concoction called old man’s milk—cold milk worked up with the yolks of eggs, sugar and rum—that the Scottish cook and housekeeper had made for him.

  He lashed out, “House guests ought to go to sleep instead of doing calisthenics at ten o’clock, or trooping about at midnight, or playing buck buck at two o’clock. What a circus!”

  It had been a night of celebration for us. Our future was entirely hopeful. Because of that, we had selfishly forgotten that Brodie’s room was directly below us. I blushed to my eyes and nervously adjusted the ribbon tied round my throat to hide a love-bite. Kitt, who had watched me fidgeting, grinned to himself.

  “Perhaps some sleeping powder will help you next time, brother,” he remarked pawkily.

  Brodie gripped his head between his hands. “I’m a junior editor at a prestigious periodical. I need to be alert. I need my superexcellent brain working at its not inconsiderable best, so that I can write intelligently and with a fine manly feeling.”

  “You possess a superexcellent brain?” Kitt teased him.

  His brother threw an ugly scowl at him. “If it’s not working, I might say something outright barbarous in my column—”

  “Dear me.”

  “—you know, something stupid and tortuous.” He glanced pointedly at me.

  Kitt plunged a spoonful of oatmeal-porridge into a basin of cream. “Delicious! This porridge reminds me of home,” and he changed the subject that way.

  We resumed eating our bountiful Scottish breakfast, with its loaves, cakes, biscuits, eggs, cheese, ham,
mutton, beef and salted herrings. This explained Kitt’s hearty appetite at breakfast when he’s in a cheerful mood. Still, it astonished me how much the two brothers could eat, whereas I satisfied myself with a slice of bread besmeared with butter and a conserve of bilberries.

  The door-bell rang.

  “Begging your pardon, sir.” A servant-girl presented Brodie with someone’s card.

  “Who presumes to make a morning call in the morning? It’s absolutely criminal.” Brodie snatched the card from her.

  “Who is it?” asked Kitt.

  “Oh, bother. I suppose I ought to receive him since he’s the heir apparent of an earldom and I’m just a lowly cit—another pert townsman to him,” he replied in a spiteful way.

  Kitt started in surprise. “You associate now with the aristocracy?”

  “Please conduct Lord Scapeton hither,” he ordered the servant-girl.

  I sputtered out, spilling my tea, “Lord Scapeton!”

  Why hadn’t my red beads warned me? Ay! I hadn’t worn them this morning because of the ribbon to hide my love-bite.

  I sprung from my chair. Kitt hastened to my side, to place a protective arm round me. “Steady, my girl,” he whispered. Still, I couldn’t help but quiver with a furious fear.

  The impeccably dressed Lord Scapeton sailed into the dining-room in the way only someone of the beau monde—the fashionable world—can. His rich elegance certainly made me feel shabbily attired, and I felt his disapproval. Immediately his indignant eyes locked with mine. In his stiff and haughty manner, he requested an introduction to “these fellows” as though they should be grateful that he would condescend to such a meeting. I could hardly hear myself talk due to the angry rush of noise in my ears.

  He said, “Well, well, little brat, we meet again.”

  “It appears so, my lord,” was my frosty reply.

  “Will you take breakfast with us, Lord Scapeton?” asked Brodie.

  His lordship sniffed. “I think not. I never breakfast at (he pulled out his watch) half past one.”

  “Half past one—impossible—it feels more like half past—”

  “Mr. Munro! I am come to tell you of an urgent and serious matter.” His lordship handed him a letter.

  “What could be so urgent and serious at half past one,” muttered Brodie.

  Lord Scapeton gave a sharp answer. “It is a letter of extortion from someone named Tessier. The article he threatens to publish, as you can see, concerns your brother and my niece, and their connection to me. He demands two hundred guineas to suppress it.”

  Brodie, of course, knew all about it. He yawned greatly, presumably to irk his guest, in that he despised all persons of rank. Taking his time, he read out loud the tale that Tessier had spun for a newspaper. It was a thumper.

  LOVE, SPANISH STYLE. Lord S—’s secret to-do in Madrid, or, as the Romans say, “When in Spain, do as the Spanish do,” came to light recently. Spain is a dangerous country peopled with cold-blooded assassins and sinister bandits. Their primitive roads are littered with crosses for the murdered. So, when yet another Spaniard lay dead, shot straight through the heart, no one suspected much, until a drawing of a missing girl was found amongst the man’s things. The deceased had been hired by the septuagenarian Don F— to capture his fifteen-year-old runaway bride. The giddy-brained girl, as it turns out, is the love-child of Lord S—. His lordship had gone to Madrid precisely to arrange this Catholic marriage. But she, upon jilting her ancient lover, eloped with a young Scotsman, a regular trickster, whom she had recently met. Lord S— hushed it up, to conceal her tarnished reputation. And when Don F—’s man discovered the truth, someone hushed him up.

  “That libelous villain!” I stamped my foot. “Surely your lordship won’t pay him anything.”

  “A lawsuit for libel is infinitely worse and damaging,” snapped his lordship.

  I hung my head. “I’m truly sorry about it, my lord.”

  “Are you?” He glowered at me. “I must pay this reptile what he asks and then, God willing, there will be an end to it. For years, I have ensured our family name is free of scandal, and I have protected my brother, with his addled brain, from vicious gossip. I refuse to be held up to ridicule—”

  “Or to be connected so publicly with Catholics,” I challenged him.

  He didn’t respond to that. His eyes on fire, he rebuked me that this incident with Tessier was my fault and that it wouldn’t have happened if I had kept my promise to marry Don Fausto instead of foolishly running away. He had been distraught when I vanished, believing me dead. His hair had turned completely grey because of it, his digestion suffered and he couldn’t sleep for weeks. Then, a problem arose with Don Fausto, who sought to renege on the loan to Don Rafael. His lordship couldn’t leave Madrid until he had mollified the old nobleman.

  “Imagine my surprise, upon my return to London, when this letter of extortion advised me that you were alive, and that you had eloped with a Scotsman and now resided in Hans Place.”

  I spat out, “Imagine mine, when I found out that my father was still alive.”

  But Lord Scapeton would never in his lifetime admit to any wrongdoing. Nor would he apologize for it.

  “As your elder and protector, I did what I thought best at the time for you, given the severity of his condition. You know not the half of it, of his grand displays of sheer madness.”

  He glared at me as though daring me to challenge his decision. I sizzled in silence.

  “Where is Emmerence? What did you do with her?”

  After torturing me with a long pause, he said at last, “She set off for a convent in Paris.”

  This was unexpected, that she had gone to France. “Which one?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know.” In other words, he wasn’t going to tell me.

  “Well, what about his lordship, my grandfather? His house is shut up, and the knocker taken off the door. Won’t you tell me where Lord Matlock is?”

  “Absolutely not. My father’s heart is too weak. Everywhere you go, calamity is sure to follow.”

  Brodie snorted into his sleeve. “I knew I was right about her—Mrs. Calamity.”

  Lord Scapeton shot him a withering look. He took me aside, to stand with him before the window. He brought his voice down to a fierce whisper. He asked me, why must I mix with these kinds of cits? To him, the Scots were a very disagreeable sort of people—such effrontery!

  “You will have a bad time of it here, with their Scottish attitude and uncultured minds. But you can be saved from it—this life of Scottish breakfasts, mediocrity and corpulency. Forget your things. Come away with me to Grosvenor Square, to be with your father,” and he pressed my elbow most urgently.

  “But I don’t wish to leave with you. I’m going to become an apothecary. Kitt promised me I could be his apprentice.”

  He gave vent to his exasperation. “An apothecary’s apprentice! Whatever for? You cannot be serious about connecting yourself to such a tradesman in a lowly occupation.”

  In an instant, my husband in silent dudgeon came to my side.

  Kitt looked at his lordship full in the face and said, “Medicine is a noble profession and those who seriously practice it do so from a love of mankind. I would be honored to work beside my wife.”

  Locking our arms together, we challenged his lordship to separate us.

  Lord Scapeton huffed. His patience at an end, he plied me with threats and cajolements to make me desert my husband, or I would suffer banishment. He even offered to take me to my ailing grandfather—the Earl of Matlock—so that I could serve as companion to him. This made me cry that he would force me to choose between two people whom I loved. Unable to persuade me—nay, manage me—he gave up.

  “This whole situation is hopeless—or rather, you are hopeless.”

  “Yes,” I defiantly told him. “I am hopelessly in love with Kitt Munro.”

  The severe dissent of Lord Scapeton, combined with that of my in-laws, would have been enough to drive me fr
om London. But we were stuck here. To make matters worse, we could no longer dine with Aggie and the colonel at Lord Scapeton’s residence, now that his lordship had returned to the capital. We met instead for Sunday service and strolled afterwards in Hyde Park.

  Most days, the colonel, accompanied by his faithful Aggie, sought treatment with various physicians and surgeons. And so, I spent my days in reading while Kitt went to work, to report sordid facts from crim. con. trials and other scandals. He always came home quietly miserable, and he never wished to speak of what he heard, or what he was obliged to write.

  Associating with hack writers nearly killed his soul, yet I knew he would bravely do it again to pay off his debt and if it meant seeing me happy and safe in England. His deeds were above heroic, in secret done, to be forever unsung. One morning, as he readied himself for battle, I sneaked scraps of paper, with flourished hearts and buttercups drawn on them, into his pockets. He came home happy that evening, for they had helped him to survive another day at the courts of Westminster Hall.

  When, finally, he had paid off what remained of his debt to his brother, he asked me where in England I wished to be. So, I told him Scarborough, Queen Street, my childhood’s home. We then sent a message to Aggie at Grosvenor Square, informing her that Kitt no longer had to report trials and that we planned to go down to Scarborough. She wrote back that the colonel agreed to quit London with us, if only “to save a young married couple from being corrupted by the literary low-life”—those being his exact words. How right he was about those libel-mongers.

  A week later, aboard the Walter Scott, we steamed for Scarborough, where we planned to stay with the colonel and Aggie. A piper on deck played the bagpipes. “Highland Laddie” it was, and many of the Scottish passengers sang along, filled with pride and longing to see their country again. Luckily for us, the colonel didn’t know the words to it.

  “How tedious traveling by carriage is, where the scenery is but a dullish blur,” Kitt told me. “I much prefer the wide-open sea. On a boat, there’s the pleasure of walking the deck and the advantage of sea air.”