One evening, they observed the truth of the rumor when the aforementioned nobleman, his young novia and his poodle-dog rode about in his well-cushioned carriage, to see and be seen in the plaza at the Puerta del Sol, she (the novia, that is) dressed in the French fashion and wearing a decidedly resigned frown. Like the pompous poodle, she had become one of Don Fausto’s ornaments.
“Must you do the ugly in public?” Lord Scapeton accosted me later.
“I never agreed to be the pink of courtesy.”
He curtly dismissed me, ordering me to take my siesta, though I hardly slept much these days. My mind in a turmoil, I paced the silent gloomy passages while everyone slept away the hot hours. This afternoon, however, I heard secretive voices. His lordship and Emmerence sat in the drawing-room, the double doors ajar, the curtains drawn to shut out the sun. Emmerence, who had seen me, summoned me to her side.
“My dear girl, ever since the day at the museum, you have not spoken much.”
I shrugged, wearing my perpetual frown.
She went on, “Whenever Don Fausto kisses your hand, you assume a vacant look.”
His lordship huffed. “Her indifference is her disobedience.”
“Nonetheless, the pitiable bruises on Sofia’s forearms are most disturbing, my lord.”
“Do not be fooled, Miss Odet—your charge will say or do anything to prevent this marriage.” He then considered me and said, “Tomorrow, you will attend confession.”
I shook my head vigorously. “I won’t!”
A prodigious sense of foreboding struck me. How could I speak to a priest and not lie to him?
Forced to kneel in the confessional the next day, I told Padre Ambrosio that Don Fausto, my intended, was a lewd old man. “Speak,” he commanded. So, I revealed the latest atrocity. The reprobate had taken intimate freedoms with me against my will when my uncle stepped away from the room for a few minutes. “Surely there are more details,” Padre Ambrosio insisted. Reluctantly, then, I described how Don Fausto had pried my lips apart and nearly choked me with his long stinking tongue, and how he had fondled my backside.
“Hateful man! I wish him dead,” I declared.
This upset Padre Ambrosio, that I wanted my future husband dead and gone before I had even married him. Despite everything I had told the padre, he advised me to obey and please Don Fausto and to bear his children without complaint—procreation being the end of matrimony. Moreover, I must confess three times a week, said he, because my murderous thoughts were threatening my immortal soul. He would be my confessor.
No priest would violate the secrecy of confession—that was what I innocently believed then. But I knew his lordship and Emmerence wanted to know what was on my mind. Given that they wouldn’t accept the truth about Don Fausto’s wickedness, I broke the secrecy of my own confession by making a pronouncement during dinner.
“I hate him like poison and wish him dead.”
“Oh, Sofia.” Emmerence took on a worried expression.
“That’s what I confessed this morning. Now you both know the truth.”
His lordship affected calmness, and so, I repeated myself, most vociferously.
“I hate him like poison and wish him dead, dead, dead!”
“Have done, girl,” he warned. “Don Fausto may not survive another cold Madrid winter. His physician advises him to take the waters at a spa town in France. I have arranged your French passport.”
My saucy self replied, “I shan’t marry an invalid. I don’t feel equal to it.”
“You will feel equal to it,” he threatened me.
Ignoring him, I continued on, “I refuse to go to France. England is where I am needed, for my father’s sake. Oh, how I miss my Scarbro’—”
He struck his hand upon the table. “Enough of your deuced Scarborough! You cannot go back there.”
Emmerence and I started in surprise at his outburst.
He blurted out, “Your father no longer exists! The man is gone.”
I stared at him in a state of shock.
Collecting himself, he said, “Now, then, you know the truth.”
His lordship’s change of demeanor frightened me, and I sensed his regret in having revealed a long-held secret. A cold cruel dread filled me, the kind that comes from a betrayal. I shut my ears to whatever else he was saying about my father. “No! He can’t be dead,” I shrieked out, refusing to believe that my father had left me alone and drifting in the world, when I had waited six long years to see him again.
A fit of hysterics and tears followed. Chairs toppled. Wine spilled from goblets. Dishes broke, clattering onto the floor. Fires blazed from overturned candles, the smoke burning the air.
More tears, more shouts happened, and I don’t know what else, perhaps a violent struggle with his lordship, perhaps the servants holding down my tongue with spoons while a foul-tasting liquid trickled down my throat, and then a big nothingness, I not remembering what occurred after that.
I am a greylag goose, a sacred bird of love, soaring in effortless wing flight against a cloudless transparent sky. Somewhere over the river Ebro, in the land of Aragón, an imperial eagle sighted me. He flew high above, biding his time. He dipped of a sudden, but I swerved down-wind, for I could outfly this eagle. He dipped again, as did I. Lower and lower I went, unaware that another eagle circled beneath us, waiting for his partner to drive me towards him. All at once, this other eagle seized me on the wing, his razor-sharp talons crushing me on impact, and we spiraled to earth where he devoured me.
I am a greylag goose, soaring in effortless wing flight … I am a greylag goose, soaring in effortless wing flight …
The laudanum-induced nightmare looped several times in my mind until I thought I was truly going mad. In a half-stupor, I awoke to the buzz of familiar voices.
“… and that is what happened to her father,” droned on his lordship.
“Oh, my goodness me,” murmured Emmerence. “What a tragedy that is.”
“You observed her acute distress on hearing the news. I knew she would become inconsolable and unmanageable because of it.”
“My lord, what have you done? She should’ve been told.”
“I did what I thought was right, namely, to keep her mind occupied, at least until she was settled in life.”
“Is that why you hired me as her governess—to keep her occupied?” The sharpness of her tone surprised me. Was she disappointed at him? Angry?
He spoke after a long pause. “She had to live with her mother until she became marriageable at fifteen—the age her mother and I agreed upon and which we thought best for her. Don Rafael had wanted her married at thirteen.”
How could Lord Scapeton deceive me? For the longest while I had suffered, living with my cruel stepfather, who, along with my mother, had known the truth about my father. Don Rafael must’ve burned the letters that came to me from England, with the sad news of my father’s demise. And now, having finally rid himself of me, Don Rafael expected me to help him out of his predicament.
I saw how it was. I, Sofia-Elisabete, in all my gullibility, had been sacrificed, to marry my family’s wealthy benefactor. Oh, wretched, wretched girl. Don Rafael got his loan; Doña Marisa got her pin money thereby. Once I realized the terrible truth of what they had done, my heart shattered into a thousand bitter pieces.
I became completely unhinged. My father’s death and the deception surrounding it were too much to bear. Three whole days I laid a-bed, wan and despondent, not moving, not eating, not saying a word. Emmerence came into my room one night, I believe. She, a ghostly figure in her night-dress, whispered that I must be sincere with God. I didn’t understand her meaning.
Meanwhile, Lord Scapeton ordered about the servants, making plans for my marriage as though I didn’t exist. Emmerence had disappeared. Had my uncle locked her away in a convent? In my friendless state, my father’s urgent voice came to me one morning, insisting that I needed to be on my guard. “It is a well-known military maxim that offensive war i
s the best defensive system,” and he rang a hand-bell to alert me.
It was the door-bell actually. Don Fausto had arrived, with his ever-present walking-cane, to sign the marriage settlement. Though he and Lord Scapeton discussed the terms in private, I stationed myself within hearing, near the door of the study. Apparently, his lordship had provided me with a substantial dowry. The dowry was promised upon fulfilment of the marriage. Next, they discussed my jointure and what would happen upon Don Fausto’s demise.
“Are we in agreement then?” his lordship asked him.
“Sí, sí, let us sign.”
“Here are pen and ink, Don Fausto.”
My heart thumped like a war drum in my chest, because I knew the banns would be read soon. I heard my father’s ghostly voice saying, “He who is afraid before he fights will be sure to be beaten.” Have courage, I told myself. But first, I needed more time to think of a way out of my difficulties. How could I delay the signing of the marriage settlement?
Then I remembered the story of my patron saint, Santa Isabel, who had used her wealth and status to help the poor after she became widowed. Did my settlement give me enough funds to save girls like me, who are being forced into unhappy marriages? Schools must be built to educate them.
I became intractable. I became demanding. I became cunning. Bursting into his lordship’s study uninvited, I voiced my disagreement with some of the settlement provisions. Don Fausto snarled at me, with livid indignation, for asking “men’s questions.”
He spat out, “You dare ask me for more money upon my death so that you can build a school for worthless girls?”
I stood my ground. “More money, yes, and more pin money while you live. I find the current terms unsatisfactory. I am worth five million reales.”
“You’re not worth one real unless you give me an heir,” he thundered. He let loose a volley of execrations against womankind, because females like me were, in his opinion, insolent, ignorant, treacherous creatures in need of calming medicine—in other words, a good beating—especially those who pretended to be virtuous when they wished their husbands dead. A violent fit of coughing ensued.
When the old nobleman’s hacking cough subsided, Lord Scapeton suggested that they add a provision whereby my pin money and settlement would increase but only if I successfully delivered an heir. Don Fausto swore an outrageous oath. The signing of the marriage settlement would be delayed since the lawyers would have to redraft the agreement. Nor would there be a tertulia this evening to announce our betrothal; it, too, must wait.
Relieved, I thought I had won this battle. But Don Fausto wasn’t done with me yet. He no doubt wished to punish me for stepping outside my proper sphere as a woman.
He bellowed out to his lordship, “Tomorrow morning then, after her confession, I insist that we appear before Padre Ambrosio to confirm our mutual consent to marry. Once I get my betrothal kiss, I, alone, shall choose the date for our private wedding.”
“What!” cried I, fearful that my time was almost up.
“Padre Ambrosio, my confessor, said this betrothal rite must be done and soon,” and he glowered at me.
It was then that I knew the padre, a spy for Don Fausto, had violated my confidence.
“We agree to it,” Lord Scapeton replied on my behalf.
My knees went knicky knocky. The betrothal rite, where the priest blessed our promise to marry in the future, made such a promise binding and enforceable. Thus, Don Fausto could consider me rightfully his.
Given this change in his favor, Don Fausto affected an amorous smile. He rapped his walking-cane on the floor, whereupon he requested time alone with me. “Ten minutes,” said Lord Scapeton. Ought I to have feared Don Fausto when Lord Scapeton left us? A nervous maid-servant came to sit within, but Don Fausto shouted at her to leave and to shut the door. That’s when he turned on me, brandishing his walking-cane. He seemed miraculously possessed of strength.
“Wicked girl! You wish me dead, do you?”
“You daren’t hit me,” I told him, which only made him more vicious.
A good dose of calming medicine came next.
The first cruel blow, which nearly cracked my back, made me cry out in agony. To be sure, I was stunned by it, by how much it smarted. The next stinging blow brought me to my knees. And then the rapid succession of three more blows made it impossible to fight back. I lay crumpled on the floor, believing that I would be killed. The physical exertion, however, proved too much for old Don Fausto, who suffered from the asthma. He dropped onto a chair completely spent, seized with another violent fit of coughing.
My father’s distressed voice boomed in my head, cautioning me to retreat, not fight. If I didn’t, I might be put to blame and locked up until morning. I stumbled to my feet. My fists clenched, I quit the old man. I cared not whether he coughed himself into oblivion.
“You must quell your anger,” insisted the invisible spirit of my father.
But I shook with fury. “No! I’m going to run for it this minute. I would rather die as a fugitive on the road than marry a woman-hater.”
The voice of my father came back with, “It’s a well-known military maxim, that the critical time for all secret enterprise, when any noise or disturbance must be particularly avoided, is the last two hours of the night before the break of dawn.” Plans must be made first. Only then could escape to England be possible. That’s what he wished me to know.
So, I bided my time, waiting for the afternoon siesta, when no one stirred in the house. Stealthily I gathered what I needed: small portmanteau, alforja for food, bota for water, along with rope, passports, coins, knife, pocket spyglass, clothes, note-book and other indispensables with which I shan’t bore you, but a seasoned traveler I am. Something was missing, however. Where did the maid-servant put my andalucita necklace? Having found it, I secured the beads round my neck for good luck.
The Diario listed the times for diligences. The one to Zaragoza would leave at three o’clock in the morning near the Puerta de Alcalá. No one would look for me in that direction. None of them knew that I planned to trace the steps of my father, who had taken the northeast route six years ago when I saw him last. If, by some miracle, I reached Zaragoza safely, I vowed to kiss the ground of the Aljafería palace, the birthplace of Santa Isabel. A pilgrim I would be.
“Las dos y media … el sereno-o-o … viva el rey Fernando!” Half past two in the morning and all was quiet, long live King Ferdinand, sang out the sereno, the night watchman.
Standing on the balcony in the dark, I clapped my hands three times as is the custom here when in need of a sereno. He responded with two sharp raps of his walking-cane from somewhere out on the street. While I waited, I prayed to the first star I saw in the sky: “Soul, soul, soul, loneliest soul in purgatory, I seek your help in my time of need.”
The sereno came, carrying a pole with a lantern suspended from it. No stranger to secret trysts, unfaithful spouses and desperate runaways, he stood below the balcony to assist me as I lowered my things, one at a time, by rope. Then, having tied one end of the rope to the balcony railing, I climbed down, sore though I was from my beating, to claim my belongings. The sereno pocketed the real I gave him and bid me good night.
A trained poodle trotted by, bearing lanthorns on a stick that he clenched between his teeth, to guide his master home. Some idlers smoked on the street. Other stragglers, drunken with love, took no notice of me, the penitent dressed in an Augustine habit, black cloak and brown-morocco walking-boots, my small portmanteau slung over one shoulder, a bota and alforja over the other. Thus burdened, I sallied forth, with a tenacity of purpose, never looking back.
Near the gate, I filled my bota with fresh water from a grand fountain, the one that depicted Cybele, the goddess of fertility, in her lion-drawn chariot. No passengers gathered at the gate, and I wondered why. It seemed the diligence wasn’t coming, this being Spain where the unexpected always happens. The gateman told me to go to the posada de la Cruz. At this hostel
for muleteers, I paid a mayoral for a place on his galera, a covered wagon with rush-matted awnings and drawn by eight fat mules.
The cargo, including my portmanteau, was stowed on the bottom, atop a tangled network of ropes, and over the cargo, a mattress had been thrown, upon which I had to settle myself most uncomfortably. Joining me were three other passengers—a quiet boy of ten who traveled alone, a Spanish guide and a Frenchman of a saturnine appearance. The latter, a newspaper reporter by trade, introduced himself as Jean-Pierre Tessier. His Spanish guide mangled it as Tesayo.
“Arré!” shouted the mayoral, and away we went. He, the driver, sat leisurely on the box, holding the rope reins, while the zagal did the work, cursing and abusing the poor mules. On the back of the galera, two escopeteros with their blunderbusses assumed menacing poses to scare off petty robbers. When we did encounter robbers, they spoke friendlike to them. The escopeteros, themselves retired robbers, knew everyone along the route.
Outside Madrid, the road became miserable, cluttered with rocks, and the tortuous jolts of the galera knocked us passengers from one side to the other. “We are potatoes being mashed about for a casserole,” cried Tessier, who then screamed out, in a frenzy of terror, that the galera would capsize, which it almost did when we encountered another galera advancing headlong. His guide, a fatalist like so many people are here, simply inquired who was alive, after we had been thrown from the wagon. We laid sprawling on the ground.
“Are you killed, Tesayo?”
Tessier raised his head. “No, are you?”
Better to be smashed to atoms than married to a beastly man, I reasoned with myself as I dusted off my habit. Having survived without injury, I thought myself quite invincible. The boy passenger, however, was not so fortunate, with an ankle badly sprained. He, a young fatalist and more stubborn than a mule, refused help. And so, the other fatalists and I resumed our journey as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
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