by Eric Flint
“Shame?” Hugh repeated with growing perplexity. “Over what?” His frown softened. “I do know your history.”
“I do not think you know it all, Hugh. Or rather, I do not think you understand what it did to me, to my—soul. Do you know the specific circumstances surrounding my marriage? Well, more to the point, my betrothal?”
“No, but your past is of no account to me. We are creatures of this world, now.”
“We may be,” she said, consciously suppressing a pained sigh: I will not invite pity! “But we bring our nature with us wherever we may go. Perhaps my meaning will be clearer if I share some facts that are well known in my country, but probably not so well in the ones—and in the circles—in which you have traveled.”
“That might indeed be clearest. And wisest.”
“You know, of course, that I was married to Laurids Ulfeldt in 1631.”
Hugh nodded.
“And you also know that Leonora was to marry his brother Corfitz . . . well, sometime this year.”
Hugh nodded again. “Well, at least you get on, together. It seems like she would have been a fine sister-in-law.”
“Under those conditions, I am not so sure. But I doubt she would have preferred the woman who would have been her other sister-in-law.”
“And who is that?”
“My mother.”
Sophie had never seen Hugh surprised, or even troubled. His men said he was unflappable. Not so now: his very blue eyes grew very wide. “Sophie, did you say—?”
“My mother,” she repeated. “My mother married Knud Ulfeldt in 1629.”
“So you and she—?”
“Became sisters-in-law when I married Laurids. It has been many years, but I have not yet decided whether I am more horrified by the cold-blooded political pragmatism of the unions she orchestrated, or the almost incestuous quality of them.”
Hugh blinked. Whether that was in reaction to the facts she’d revealed, or her sarcastic scalpel cuts, she was not certain. Probably both. Either would be enough to send most men fleeing after a hasty and final bow.
But he was still standing before her. “So, all the Ulfeldt brothers—”
“Were equally determined and cold-blooded about the matter. As true creatures of their class, marriage was not about love. It was part of their greater game to accrue more power. The web of marriages which they meant to finish weaving—and did, in the up-timers’ world—was a cat’s cradle of leverage to be exerted upon the throne. Their collective influence in the Rigsrad, wielded according to Corfitz’s singular political acumen and access and the power attained by more than doubling their wealth through marriage to both my mother and me, was to have so stalemated Christian’s royal prerogatives that it would be they, not he, who would have effectively ruled Denmark.”
She gathered her skirts and sat, keeping her back very straight. “Even in an age when marriage is routinely informed by prudence and political alliance, the blatantly monstrous ambition that wove this crown-snaring web was so plain to see that it would even have startled a blind cow.” She smoothed the folds of her dress where it went over her knees. “Is my shame more clear, now?”
Hugh sat next to her and frowned, but she perceived it was from trying to find the right words with which to reply. Granted, she understood that responding would challenge the tact of the most silver-tongued diplomat.
But he sidestepped that challenge altogether. “These were horrible dishonors and disservices done to you, and it would be strange indeed if you felt no anger or resentment at being so horribly used. But that’s only the half of it, isn’t it?”
She felt her eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s a mean enough existence to suffer such insults, but to have them known publicly? There’s as much salt as there is wound, that way. What’s worse, you’re nobility and so people talk. And what little they know gets shared and grows larger and more monstrous in each sharing. So I pay but little mind to the stories that accumulate around supposed ‘scandals.’ Beyond the barest facts, if you can even learn them, most of the rest is invented and the remainder is misreported or misunderstood.”
She found his perception both surprising and refreshing. Then understanding replaced the surprise: “As nobility, your life, too, would excite conjecture and rumor.” She frowned. “So why is there no such talk of you?”
Hugh smiled and rubbed his fine, straight nose. “Well, among my own people, there’s not much to say, is there? I’m an exile of no account. But beyond them, in the continent’s great castles and courts that are home to those of your stature . . . Well, I’m not really nobility, not to them.” His smile bent a bit. “I’m a savage from a land where the bards are all dead, the scholars do not go, and the bright students leave as quickly as they may. If they may.”
He raised a palm along with the animation of his expostulatory lilt. “And of course, I’m not even really from my ‘homeland’ at all. I was still in swaddling clothes when I arrived in the Brabant.” He smiled at her. “But you, from head to toe, are a true aristocrat, born and reared up in a land with commerce, and universities, and science, and power. Of course the mighty—and all who aspire to, or envy, their position—will talk of you, Sophie.” He shrugged. “But I’m an earl in name only; the title is attainted, along with every square inch of my family’s lands in an obscure country.”
She nodded tightly. “You tell the cruel truth of your family with ease and aplomb.”
He grinned. “I’ve had more than a bit of practice at it.”
“Jest if you will, but it marks you as the true noble, between the two of us.”
He frowned. “Now, how can I possibly believe there’s a whit of truth behind those foolish words, Sophie?” He almost seemed to sing her name.
Just as he had in the infirmary during his final visit. And as he’d done during the dance, so many times . . .
She fought to keep focus. “You are wrong, Hugh. What I have said of my circumstances, and changed self, is too true for me to bear or for you to ignore. Today I am . . . reasonably collected. But I do not always have much equanimity of opinion or expression when I speak of my family, Hugh. Which is why I do not do so often. And also, I’m not sure they deserve any better. So when I do speak of them, I cannot in good conscience mediate the bitterness that rises up at the merest recollection of who they are.”
“Even if the only one still being injured by that poison is your good self?”
She faced him squarely. “Hugh, the sad tale of your background is ultimately about what was done to your family. But my story is of what my family did to me.” She closed her eyes, couldn’t bear to see the world around her as she uttered the truth she had never yet spoken aloud. “And by my family, I mean my mother, whose love can be as comforting as the edge of a razor and as gentle as a scorpion’s touch. And just as healthful.” She spat out a mirthful laugh before she could stop it. “You see? Are you not impressed by my loving tone, my compassionate recollection of her sacrifices on my behalf?”
“Sophie—”
But once again, she couldn’t stop. “And of course, I am no longer the beneficiary of her wealth, since she promised to disown me if I traveled with the daughters of her arch enemy the king, and up-timers whose histories exposed the Ulfeldt’s perfidies and so undid all their plans.
“So you see, I am far more impoverished than you are, kind Hugh. You now have oil revenues, the love of your men, and a chance at restoring all your fortunes. I have nothing left, not even the one person I could truly call family in this whole world. Besides, the king wanted a companion to his daughters, a capable person who could be of assistance to those agents he sent to grow his domains in this New World.” She managed a smile. “As the up-timers say, ‘Hey, it’s a job.’”
Hugh nodded. “Losing one’s birthright can be a liberating experience. It certainly has been for me.”
“In what way?”
“Many. But chief on my mind right now is how my defi
nition of wealth has changed. It is no longer shackled to land and money and title and my duty to accrue them in order to regain a birthright stolen from me. The real wealth is the world around us and the people in it. Which I always knew, but now . . . well, freed of all those dutiful presumptions, I breathe what feels like freer air. And am free in ways I never before knew I was missing.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the freedom to write poems.”
“You are crafting poems? How wonderful! What topics?”
“Well,” he smiled with a hint of color in his cheeks, “just one poem so far. And the topic . . . well, see if you are familiar with it.” He held out a small, much folded piece of paper toward her.
She took it carefully, but as she touched one of its corners with a finger that was trying to tremble, he rose. “You mean to go?”
His smile almost seemed nervous. “Although I would be glad to watch you do anything, Sophie, it’s rightly said that watching another read is hardly a spectator sport.” His smile flattened to match a somber hint in his tone. “Besides, some things are best done in private. This might prove to be one of them.” He reached out his hand slowly.
Unsure, she took it. He held it longer than would be expected as part of any meeting or parting of friends. Much, much longer.
He whispered something she could not hear, nodded into a half bow, and left the infirmary quickly.
Sophie teased open one corner of the paper, then another, and then, cross with herself, opened the rest briskly and started reading . . .
Chapter 32
Oranjestad, St. Eustatia
When Leonora arrived in the infirmary and said hello, Dr. Brandão’s response was unusually muted. Sophie did not respond at all. In fact, she wasn’t moving at all. She was sitting in a chair, pushed back against the wall on its own, reading something on a piece of paper. Or simply staring at it; Leonora could not tell which.
“Sophie,” she asked, “are you well?”
After a long moment, Sophie answered without looking up. “I am well. I was given a poem. Written for me.”
Leonora glanced at Brandão, who ducked his head into his work in order to hide a smile.
“I see,” said Leonora. Unsure how to proceed, she sought a way to bridge the topic of receiving a poem with something she could comment upon meaningfully. “Oh!” she said aloud as inspiration provided an answer.
Sophie glanced up.
“Well,” Leonora explained, affecting an offhanded tone because they never came naturally to her, “your comment put me in mind of the poems I have received from Rik—er, Lord Bjelke. Well, I suppose most of them are treatises. I know my answers are. Poems are too indefinite. Although, I do like them. Well, some.”
This was not going well at all. “What I mean is that Rik and I exchange writings of ours,” she added lamely, “but sometimes, he writes a poem.” Leonora gritted her teeth, was quite sure that if Anne Cathrine was here, this was one of those moments when she should sigh and rest her suddenly heavy forehead in her suddenly weary palm.
But that was forgotten when, looking up, she noticed that Brandão was now holding himself very still, as if he might start quaking. His face was almost as rigid. His color was increasing. “Doctor, are you quite well?” she asked hastening in his direction.
He held up a hand quickly, arresting her approach. “Yes, quite well.” It sounded like he had his jaws and throat clenched, as one does when trying to stifle a yawn or laughter.
“Are you quite sure?”
“I am in perfect heh-heh-health,” he gasped out, covering his mouth as his eyes began to water. He looked away and cleared his throat several times. When he mastered himself, he turned toward Sophie. “Now that Lady Leonora is here, I see no reason that you should not use the day to find some serenity.” He smiled and his eyes crinkled. “So long as you may.”
Sophie answered with a wry smile and a nod. She rose, kissed Leonora on the forehead, and walked out of the infirmary into the bright Caribbean sunshine.
Leonora watched her go, turned back to Brandão, who seemed to have recovered from what she now surmised to have been a suppressed laughter, but at what, she could not imagine. “While we have a moment alone, Doctor, I would be grateful if you could answer a question for me.”
He nodded, his face a study in careful self-control.
“I have been wondering: if I was contemplating the medical arts as my life’s work, would you recommend commencing those studies here, or back in Europe?”
When Brandão turned to her, speechless, his face was as she usually beheld it, except more serious. Grave, even.
“I ask this,” she carried on, filling the unexpected silence, “because I have been weighing the two options in terms of what I see as their respective merits.
“If I remain here, I shall accrue much practical experience in a frontier region where both common and novel medical challenges will present themselves. And of course, I would be working at the side of one of the foremost doctors of our era. I am inclined to think that is the superior option, because the opportunity is quite unique.”
Brandão might have been preparing to respond, but Leonora did not notice his slight shift in posture until after she had resumed. “But in Europe, there are universities and libraries. Not the least of which is the one in Grantville, although I hear most books with any medical significance have been copied and recopied for inclusion in the collections of every major medical faculty. And of course, I might be able to apprentice myself to one of the up-time practitioners and learn their advanced techniques firsthand.”
It looked like Brandão might be trying to interject something again, but Leonora reasoned that with her discursus so near its end, she might as well finish it. “However, all those universities and books and up-timers will still be there in the years to come. But this opportunity with you, here, at this pivotal time in the Caribbean, will not last. So my thought is to remain here to prepare for subsequent work there. What is your opinion, Doctor?”
And she sat to wait for his reply.
Brandão sat also, although he looked exhausted. Which was peculiar because he had barely moved an inch since she had started talking. “Lady Leonora,” he said eventually, “in the first place, I am honored. Far beyond my ability to convey, given my limited mastery of English.”
He moved his stool closer. “But secondly, I must be frank: you should not remain here.” She frowned and started to open her mouth, but he shook his head and raised a quelling finger. “Attend, dear child . . . and I must be so bold as to address you that way, to give the necessary, added emphasis to my recommendation. Although my station is far, far beneath yours, I hope you will not be offended that I have fatherly feelings toward you, and that, more crucially, I offer my advice in that fond context.”
Leonora was so surprised, and so touched, and so fearful that she might start crying, that she could only nod. She could also imagine Anne Cathrine across the room, sighing in relief at her continued silence.
“You are the most promising young assistant I have ever had, and a more extraordinary student than I believed our species could produce. And in working here with me, you have seen what is involved in this work and so, have had ample opportunity to consider and distinguish whether your affinity for it is a passing fascination or a true calling. Which is arguably especially important in your case, my child.”
Leonora nodded, but Brandão continued too swiftly for her to slip in a comment. “You would continue to learn by staying here, certainly, but over the past ten months, you have already reached and exceeded that plateau of knowledge and experience which readies you for the next step: acquiring mastery in the deepest foundations of the medical arts. Indeed, because you have seen so much, and learned so quickly, there is another skill that you must acquire. And no one may teach it to you but you, yourself.”
She blurted the question so he could not smother it with more of his own words: “And what skill is that, Doctor?”
He smiled like a grandfather might have, and she realized, suddenly and almost painfully, that here was the relative she had always wished for without even knowing it. That he was a small, withered, Sephardic murrano whose acquaintance she would never have been allowed to make back home only quickened her appreciation of, and devotion to, him.
She realized he was still smiling, but had not answered. “What skill must I teach myself, Doctor?”
Brandão reached out very slowly, as if hazarding to touch a wild creature that had wandered close. He held her chin gently in his sunbaked, wrinkled fingers. “You must teach yourself how to hold your tongue, you wonderful young woman. Not to be silent: that is a different lesson, and one I hope you refuse to learn!”
“But . . . but what is the difference between holding your tongue and being silent?”
“Holding one’s tongue is akin to a hunter holding one’s fire until the right moment. Being silent is to accept that it is not your place to be a hunter, and so never firing at all. Ever.” He nodded grimly. “I have seen too many young women forced to accept the latter.”
She nodded, but also could feel her face contorting into one titanic frown. “I understand that.”
“Yes”—he smiled—“ . . . but?”
“But how do I know when it is time to fire and when not?” she almost wailed. “There is so much illogic in the utterances of so many persons. Thinking in the midst of that is like . . . is like trying to remember and hum a complex tune in a crowded market, with a bedlam of voices crying wares in every language. Discerning the right moment to speak, and what might be heard and received, is frustrating beyond couth description, Doctor.”
He waggled her chin before releasing it with a sigh. “And that, child, is what you must learn to do, nonetheless. And it is more important for you to achieve than any other student or assistant I have ever had.”