I, Sofia-Elisabete, Love Child of Colonel Fitzwilliam

by Robin Kobayashi

  I, Sofia-Elisabete,

  LOVE CHILD OF

  COLONEL FITZWILLIAM:

  a perfect world in the moon

  ROBIN ELIZABETH KOBAYASHI

  ISBN: 978-0-9985716-3-8 (epub)

  ISBN: 978-0-9985716-4-5 (mobi)

  ISBN: 978-0-9985716-5-2 (print)

  © Copyright 2018 by Robin Elizabeth Kobayashi

  Cover design and illustrations by www.brunovergauwen.com

  Interior design and ebooks by booknook.biz

  Interior moon image design by www.sailorschifferli.com

  Interior image © siridhata/Shutterstock

  Elizabeth Bailey Assessment Services, www.helpingwritersgetitright.co.uk

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For Madison Nii

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter One: A Voyage to Inglaterra

  Chapter Two: Destiny

  Chapter Three: Bugbear in the Old Wood

  Chapter Four: Tree on the Hill

  Chapter Five: World in the Moon

  Chapter Six: The Magic Oranges

  Chapter Seven: The Officer and the Water Maiden

  Chapter Eight: The Beau

  Chapter Nine: The Three Curses

  Chapter Ten: The Dancing Maja

  Chapter Eleven: Majo Girl

  Chapter Twelve: La Luna

  Chapter Thirteen: The Lion and the Savage

  Chapter Fourteen: The Changeling

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Foreword

  I AM A LOVE CHILD, born in the year 1810, and a love child I would be for ever. You see, once you’re a love child, you can never be anything else in this unforgiving world. I know not why this is so – why a child born to parents who aren’t married to one another should be treated unfairly. But I don’t care one jot what people say about me.

  Yes, yes – it’s true that I wasn’t just a love child. I had the great misfortune to be an abandoned love child, one that had been cast off into a foundling turnbox wheel, yet survive I did. In my childish heart I consoled myself, believing my real parents to be the most perfect people, and it became my secret wish to find them.

  A small child I was at the time, with magical powers where I could make things right again whenever my enchanted world got tangled up in misery and sorrow or whenever the all-knowing grown-ups didn’t make any sense. Oh, to believe in that child again! And now, here I am, seven years wiser, bereft of my magical powers, trying to make sense of it all – of this thing, this really big thing that happened to me in 1815, when I found my parents and then I lost my parents.

  Chapter One

  A Voyage to Inglaterra

  MY FIRST MEMORY, thinks I, was of an old, wrinkled nun named Sister Matilde as she and I rode her burrinho, a burrinho named Bento, meaning ‘blessed’, in a land far away, in the mountains high above Monchique. She prodded Bento with her heels and cried out ‘Allez! Allez!’ in French, for she was born an age ago somewhere near Paris and had fled France during the revolution. Together we merrily sang ‘Arre burrinho, Arre burrinho’ as we rode down the green hillside, atop of which stood the ancient but poor Convento de Nossa Senhora do Desterro – Our Lady of Exile – much of it in ruins after the great earthquake of 1755.

  ‘Minha Sofinha, if you are a good little girl,’ Sister Matilde tapped me on the nose, ‘I shall reward you with a lemon ice or a fresh fig.’

  ‘Ice! Ice!’ cried I with joy, because no three-year-old wanted to eat a squashy fig if an ice could be had.

  In the market-town of Monchique, Sister Matilde placed me near the door of the tenda, the grocer’s shop, where I stood beside the other beggars. I kissed my palms, and I held out my hands to passers-by, many of whom became seized with pity for this anjinha, this tattered little angel adorned with wild jonquils in her hair, and they gave me a réis.

  I was born in Lisbon, on the third of June, 1810, amidst the turmoil of warfare, where thousands and thousands of country peasants crowded into the city to escape Napoleon’s Le Grande Armée. My papai, being a brave British officer, suffered an injury in Sobral, and while he recovered in Lisbon, he learnt of my existence and then he disappeared. ‘War and circumstance separated us,’ he used to say. Should you wonder, I am no longer a bebê, being now a proper young lady of twelve years. But I have excellent recall and a prodigious mind, as papai is wont to tell me. ‘My daughter is “la jeune savante” – the young scholar – and as learned as her governess,’ he often boasts to his family and connections.

  Yes, yes – I know what you are feeling. How came I to live in Inglaterra? What happened was this. One dreary winter’s morning, a nun at the foundling hospital in Lisbon heard the loud cry of an abandoned bebê. She rushed to the roda dos expostos – the foundling turnbox wheel – where she discovered me, shivering from the cold. And so I came to live with this nun, Sister Matilde, who sheltered me at the Convento do Desterro, one hundred and sixty miles south of Lisbon. I learnt how to say my prayers, and once, while we celebrated Mass, God told me He would send a guardian angel to watch over me. My angel was beautiful and kind, and she wore a red capa or cloak. She called herself Elisabete, but I called her Sister Lisbet, because all guardian angels were nuns who worked for God; at least I thought so, given that I lived in a convent.

  It was from there, in July 1813, at the grand age of three, that I took my leave of my homeland. Sister Lisbet told me I must go and find my papai, he being ‘so very lost’, which is how she described him to me and what I came to believe. He had been missing for three whole years. How could a grown-up get lost? My wee brain struggled to understand this mystery. Sister Lisbet found two Irish nuns who would take me to their convent in York, and with Sister Matilde’s blessing, the Irish sisters and I embarked for Inglaterra, setting sail from Lagos. I had no fear, even when we entered the treacherous waters of the Bay of Biscay and got caught in a gale near the Spanish coast. ‘Wet betokens luck,’ Sister Lisbet whispered to me as the waves and wind knocked our sea-boat about.

  From Falmouth to York, I searched and searched, I waited and waited, I prayed and prayed that I would find my papai. Unbeknown to me, he had journeyed to Lisbon to search for his little girl, but I had already gone. Ai de mim! Ay me! The following year, as my fourth birth-day approached, my papai visited Pemberley, his cousin Darcy’s estate in Derbyshire, to do a bit of rusticating, for he had been brought low by my disappearance. One day, when his health improved, he received the broadest of hints from Sister Lisbet to come to York. And so hie to this ancient city he did. He brought with him his cousin Darcy and his good friend Mr Bingley who knew of our convent and guided him to us. Oh que gosto! What joy! I had found papai, and I gave a thousand thank-you’s to God.

  ‘Papai, why are you crying?’

  ‘Oh, filha da minha alma, daughter of my soul.’ And he began to sob again.

  ‘Are you not happy to see me?’

  ‘I am extremely happy to see you.’ Papai chucked me under the chin. ‘I thought you would never find me.’

  ‘Sister Lisbet helped me find you.’

  This gave him a shock. ‘Sister Elisabete? The nun I met at the convent in Lisbo
n?’ He looked round but couldn’t see her standing by his side.

  ‘You must have faith,’ I shook my finger at him. I thought him curious for not having a strong faith like mine.

  ‘Yes, I should, poppet.’

  ‘What’s a pop-head?’

  ‘A poppet is a child who is dearly loved,’ he tried to explain.

  I gasped. ‘Do you love me?’

  ‘Do I.’ And he kissed my hand.

  ‘Papai, may I have a burrinho?’

  He gave a hearty laugh. ‘Why, you imp.’

  Having found papai, I would live with him for ever, unaware that I could no longer stay with Sister Lisbet at the convent. When Sister Lisbet told me this, that she had fulfilled her mission to find my papai, I stamped my feet – left-right-left-right. Ai de mim! ‘I shan’t give you up, Sister Lisbet, I shan’t,’ insisted I, for I had changed my name from Sofia to Sofia-Elisabete to honour the good sister.

  Mother Coyney at the convent knew not why I wept. She reasoned with me that I must needs leave the convent if I wished to become a proper young lady. I sobbed again while Sister Lisbet tried to hush me. ‘Calai-vos, calai-vos,’ she soothed me with her melodious voice. Sister Lisbet revealed to me that she would always be one dream away whenever I needed her. She gave me a silver cross to wear, and she promised to give me a macaw, a macaw named Graça, who could speak in Portuguese. A talking bird? I asked her if I could have a talking burrinho instead. ‘Tut, tut,’ she shook her head at me.

  There, at the convent, papai introduced me to my cousin Darcy, a tall and pretty gentleman indeed, and to Mr Bingley, a most handsome and friendly gentleman who had married the sister of Mrs Darcy and who had travelled with papai to search for me in Lisbon. Papai said that Mr Bingley’s father used to celebrate Mass here, when it was a secret convent, and once upon a time, our Mr Bingley, being a mere boy then and mischievous, got stuck inside the priest hole until a nun heard him blubbering and rescued him. Bing, Bing, Bingley-O! How I adore him, let me count the ways. He has reddish hair, a handful of freckles on his cheeks and long, silky eyelashes framing his fine blue eyes.

  ‘Bom dia o senhor.’ I curtseyed prettily to him.

  ‘Bom dia. Que bella menina!’ Mr Bingley bowed to me.

  To be sure, his sweet compliment in Portuguese pleased me, and so I kissed his hand again and again.

  Papai cleared his voice. ‘Poppet, let go of his hand now. Poppet, did not you hear me?’

  But I had not done yet flirting with my new friend.

  ‘Vem cá. Come here.’ Papai picked me up, and pressing his lips on my cheek, he blew on it – hoooooooonk – to give me a wet and loud kiss.

  ‘Gah!’ squealed I, having never been kissed before.

  ‘Well, now, that is my special gooseberry kiss,’ papai teased me.

  ‘Gooseberry’ seemed a curious word at first to me, but it turned into a special one whenever papai is funning with me or distracting me with a kiss. Ever since then, I have been wild for anything gooseberry – gooseberry fool, gooseberry pie, gooseberry jam.

  For many months thereafter, it was just the two of us: me and my papai. We lived for a bit at Pemberley, where cousin Darcy gifted me with a piebald burrinho, a burrinho I named Pie, the only problem being that Pie would live at Pemberley and never with me. Even the macaw Graça, whom papai had brought back with him from Portugal, would live at Pemberley for ever. Methinks the macaw wouldn’t want to leave this place. Graça and Bixby, cousin Darcy’s favourite dog, became boon companions, and one could often see Bixby gambolling on the hillocks, the macaw perched on his back.

  Cousin Darcy became fond of Graça and she of him. He taught the macaw all sorts of words in different languages, and curious folks would come from miles away just to hear the macaw speak. One day, Graça surprised us with ‘jig it’, which gave Mrs Darcy much mirth because her reserved husband loathes to dance. But in those rare instances when cousin Darcy feels inclined to dance a jig, he would always joke, ‘I am of a mind to jig it’, and dance he would, amazing everyone as he tripped about.

  My papai, on seeing how scraggy I was, determined that I should be fattened up with mighty English roast beef, maccaroni and potatoes. Having never eaten meat before, I found it not to my liking, and I would toss my scraps of beef to Bixby who sat under the table. Thereafter, papai would cut up the food on my plate into tiny, uniform pieces, and he lined them up, the meat on one side and the vegetables on the other, like two opposing armies meeting on the battlefield. I would spear each piece with my fork, and once I had vanquished them all, papai would award me my victory ‘goose-grog’ – my gooseberry fool.

  I gave a thousand thank-you’s to God that I no longer experienced pangs of hunger. I no longer had to imagine that the cup of water Sister Matilde had given me to fill my stomach was a bowl of sopa de peixe when there was no food to be had at the Convento do Desterro. And I no longer had to go with Sister Matilde to beg for alms. But I shan’t forget the day when we found three new-born infants in the roda – the foundling turnbox wheel – of the Convento and how Sister Matilde raised her arms heavenwards, praying for food and for the poor and desperate parents to come back for their children.

  One night at Pemberley, after the house had quieted, I closed my eyes, and I willed myself to float in the air, and float I did, from the nursery to papai’s bedchamber one storey below. Once I had planted my feet back on the ground, I threw off my hateful night-dress, and I climbed into the warm bed with my papai. The next night, papai awaited me this time.

  ‘Sofia-Elisabete, we shall be in a heap of trouble when it becomes known you are giving Nurse the slip every night.’

  ‘I hate the nursery.’

  Papai groaned. ‘Did not the good sisters tell you that you must wear a night-dress in England? You cannot sleep in a state of nature like you did in Portugal.’

  ‘I hate the night-dress.’

  ‘You silly gooseberry.’ Papai sighed. ‘What to do? What to do?’

  ‘Please papai,’ I tugged at his sleeve. ‘Nursey snores.’

  Papai gave up. ‘Well, go to sleep for now.’

  ‘I’m not sleepy.’

  ‘Vem cá. Come here. I’ll sprinkle magic dust into your eyes, and you shall meet with the dustman soon enough.’

  In the morning, Nursey gave me a scolding, and she warned me the bugbear would gobble me up for being naughty. When I asked her what a bugbear was, Nursey told me that a goblin in the form of a bear lurked in the woods and preyed on naughty wicked children. Not knowing what a bear could be, because we never had ursos in the south of Portugal, it bewildered me as to why Nursey was worked up to a perfect fit of frenzy at a little bug which anyone could squash with his hand. Que estranho! How strange! These folks in Inglaterra have odd customs.

  My first memory of a curious scent, thinks I, was that of papai as I slept near him. My papai brings to mind a hodgepodge of cloves and cinnamon and heavy dew and bark and musty earth. He calls it his manly perfume, the truth being he never likes to bathe much. Me? I don’t like to bathe either. I am my papai’s daughter after all. One day, just before dinner, papai asked me if I had washed my hands.

  ‘I must have done,’ I twisted my hands behind my back.

  Papai lectured me on the evils of lying. ‘Right-about-face, soldier, and quick march upstairs to wash your hands.’

  The next day, before we supped, for my papai always let me dine at table when the Darcys were from home, he asked me if I had washed my hands.

  I showed him my hands. ‘They don’t look dirty, so why do I need to wash them?’

  This diverted papai at first, but he became stern, like the colonel he is. ‘Wash your greasy hands or I shan’t give you a dish of your goose-grog.’

  Ai de mim! I rushed upstairs, struck with panic that I wouldn’t get my share of gooseberry fool.

  Our tranquil days at Pemberley seemed destined to last for ever, until one day we received an unexpected visitor. Lord Matlock, he being my papai’s father, rode his
black stallion to Pemberley in search of his son. He galloped towards Darcy’s Lake all in a fury, having sighted papai there, angling for a carp named Mr Callidus, a whale of a fish who is rumoured to be sixty-five years old and who rules the lake.

  ‘Pater?’ Papai gazed in astonishment at the imposing figure of Lord Matlock astride his black stallion.

  ‘Son.’ His countenance grim, Lord Matlock dismounted his horse. ‘Why have you not visited Matlock? I have ridden here myself to see if there is truth to the rumours I am hearing.’ For the first time, his lordship noticed me playing with my doll near the bank of the lake.

  ‘Pray what rumours would that be?’

  Lord Matlock prodded papai with his riding-whip. ‘Unlike you, I will not dissemble. I am speaking of the rumour that you and your by-blow are living here at Pemberley.’

  ‘She is my daughter, and it took us a long time to find each other. I will not give her up.’ Papai tugged at his cravat.

  ‘So it is true,’ thundered Lord Matlock. ‘Are you out of your senses?’

  What to do? How could I, Sofia-Elisabete, end their quarrel? I placed myself inside a skiff, and I willed a gust of wind to push it towards the centre of Darcy’s Lake. I cried out for papai again and again, when, to my amazement, Lord Matlock dove into the lake, and he swam like a madman to rescue me by towing the skiff back to the dock.

  His lordship scrutinised me, now that I stood safe on land. ‘I wonder how you got into the skiff?’

  ‘I climbed into it.’

  ‘But how did that rope become loose?’

  ‘I made it loose.’ I giggled at his puzzled face.

  ‘Oh, and did you perform magic to make the skiff drift to the centre of the lake?’

  I nodded. ‘I told Wind to help me.’

  ‘Why did you put yourself into danger, child?’ He rubbed his forehead and frowned.

  ‘I stopped you and papai from fighting.’