Still, I began to fidget. “Kitt, I shan’t ever be the perfect wife, the angel in the home who is always compliant.”
“I don’t want the perfect wife,” and he clasped my hand over his heart. “We are separate, equal beings, united by love with constant hearts, and from our deep friendship, many happy children will spring forth.”
My brow wrinkled. “Exactly how many—”
The padre coughed into his hand, eager to begin. He beckoned us forward to a highly ornate altar where the image of the saint presided. As we walked down the aisle, my father’s voice came to me. He said, “My girl, while I approve of your choice and give you my blessing, I’m resolved never to get on with Munro since he has stolen you away from me.”
“My dear father, must you jest on my wedding day?” I heard myself talking.
Kitt squeezed my hand. “You must miss your father. I am sorry for your loss.”
“How did you know he was dead?”
“You talk in your sleep.”
Suppressing a sob, I said, “He was the best of men, the best of fathers. He would have liked you.”
The force of my imagination then took hold. Surrounding me, because I had called for them, stood my Scarborough family, who had come forward to witness the wedding ceremony, but they were soon swept up in a gust of wind, to drift high into the greyish clouds that hugged the peaks. Part of me felt entirely alone without them, while another part of me knew I wouldn’t be alone again, now that I would marry Kitt. Did he miss his family as well? He hadn’t said a word about them lately, and it puzzled me, given their close relationship. How fortunate he was to have such an uncomplicated family, free of scandal, free of embarrassments and entanglements.
We knelt before the padre, who sprinkled blessed water on the wedding rings and uttered prayers. Thereafter, he assisted us with the exchange of rings. Kitt, the bridegroom, received his first from the padre, who prayed and shifted the ring from finger to finger on Kitt’s right hand until it rested on his fourth finger. The padre then placed his hand over Kitt’s hand, which held my ring.
They placed the ring on my thumb, the padre praying in the same manner, “In the name of the Father, who created the world.”
Then onto my second finger. “And of the son, who redeemed the whole world.”
Then onto my third finger. “And of the Holy Spirit, who illuminated the whole world.”
And then onto my fourth finger. “Peace be with you. Amen.”
Kitt consented to marry me. “Sofia-Elisabete, with this ring I espouse you, and with my body I honor you, and this gift I give you.”
His nose turned cherry red, his eyes red-rimmed. I thought he would surely dissolve into tears on our wedding day. Was that a good or bad thing? My emotions now brimful, I wrapped my arms round him, disrupting the ceremony, and I began to cry with happiness. Surely it was good luck for the bride to shed tears.
Thereafter, we celebrated Mass. A nuptial blessing was given, and then we were bound with a veil placed over my head and across Kitt’s shoulders, a holy knot being tied in front of us. More prayers followed, after which the padre proceeded with Holy Communion and the conclusion of the Mass. After removing the veil from us, the padre asked the Lord to bless our union. Our hearts were now joined in a perpetual bond of genuine love until the end of our days, where the eternal joys of heaven awaited us.
We sold Rombo at a reduced price to the padre as part of our donation to the church. The padre urged Kitt to get me across the border quickly. It was dangerous here for liberals like me.
After a heartfelt tearful good-bye to Raya, my quadruped friend, I set off with Kitt on our luna de miel—our honeymoon. He thought it best to proceed on foot now, with us carrying our things. At first, I think he worried that I wasn’t strong enough, but I wanted to prove myself. Besides, this was our luna de miel. Visions of love, of passionate kisses, of tender embraces inspired me.
“They say a good walker can get from Panticosa to Eaux-Chaudes in ten hours’ time.” He consulted his pocket compass to determine our direction.
“I’m an excellent walker. Why, I recently did fourteen miles on my pilgrimage to Zaragoza.”
He seemed doubtful. “Did you carry your own things?”
“Of course,” I whipped out a half-truth.
Steadily we walked on, drawn into the natural paradise of the Valle de Tena—a blend of green and granite, of pasture land and sheep, of yellow gentians and red helleborine. The air was thin and pure, the sun warm, the sky a solitary blue. We were carefree and alone together, yet separate, occupying a similar place in our minds.
Once, while we lay barefoot in a pretty meadow amongst the buttercups, with walnut-trees to shade us, he adorned me with flowers from the top of my head to between my toes. A purple-edged copper butterfly fluttered close above, and it alighted on the peak of my breast. We became shy, very much nervous and awkward, almost like strangers. “Sofia of my soul,” this stranger whispered, desirous to know me.
After the interlude of buttercupping—oh, the tumbling and the bliss!—we tramped the nine miles to Panticosa, a poor village nestled in a narrow strip of valley, where grew chestnut and walnut trees. Seven miles after that, the ascent being steep, we came to a Roman bridge in Sallent de Gállego, a hamlet situated at the foot of high summits. To be sure, I was rightly proud of myself, the expert walker, albeit one who had to be indulged, so that she could secretly rest while admiring something, such as a majestic stalk of an iris, or a troop of izards, or a lone black salamander. This is what I was doing, dawdling on the bridge to inhale the vapors of the foamy river, when Kitt called out to me.
“Sofia, if we make haste, we can reach Eaux-Chaudes before dusk.”
Suppressing a groan, I asked, “How many more miles is it?”
“Twenty-one.”
A cry of alarm escaped me as I slumped onto the ground. Annoying prickly tears bleared my eyes. So desperate I had become to keep up with Kitt, to go wherever he went and never to be left behind on our luna de miel. There was nothing for it, I supposed, but to own my physical weakness. He, the indefatigable explorer, retraced his steps onto the bridge to retrieve me, his weary wife.
“You’ve done well, querida mía—about sixteen miles so far.”
“Dear Kitt, I fear it is my limit.”
“You must be very sore.” He cast me a shy apologetic glance.
“Oh, aye, I throb,” said I, with a wince.
“Poor girl. What must you think of me, pushing you on?”
“I’m not truly a lazy-bones, nor am I delicate. It’s difficult, you know, to walk up a mountain with heavy coins hidden in one’s boots.”
He gaped at me. “Silly goose, give them to me to carry.”
So, I did. I gave him the money I had left, except for a few coins, which I kept for purchasing essential sweets. He helped me up, supporting me with his arms.
“Each day you are more exceptional than the last.”
His praise made me blush. “Are you pleased about the money then?”
“I wasn’t thinking of the money.”
Evening came and Kitt chanced to see a double moon near the horizon. He believed it a mirage. The phenomenon caused quite a stir at our posada in Sallent, where, at a communal table, with chickens perched upon it, we lodgers dined on fresh mountain trout. The landlord predicted that Kitt, who had sighted these moons, must make a fateful choice soon. His wife, however, warned that it signified duplicity of some sort. An old man, who was accompanied by his pig, interpreted it instead as a blessing, and he predicted double happiness for Kitt and me.
Later, in our matrimonial chamber, we passed the night in double happiness upon a mattress stuffed with heather—an unbelievably bewitching aroma, enough so to make you lose your senses. We had been lying there senseless for a long while, aglow with lusty moonlight, when I noticed a long scratch, a cut really, on Kitt’s lower back. Tracing its curved jagged path with my finger, I believed it to be a knife wound. Kitt turned to his
side abruptly. He brushed a finger on my lips. And before I could utter a word, he kissed away my thoughts.
Those curious thoughts of mine returned at daybreak, but Kitt, in a fervor, kissed them away once more. My man has a large appetite, a great hunger, particularly in the morning.
“Do I smell coffee and other good things?” He nibbled my ear, still hungry.
I recognized the aroma. “Eggs fried and basted in olive oil.”
When we breakfasted, he ate two of these Spanish fried eggs, salted and peppered, and then another one, along with dry bread, and he washed everything down with a tumbler of goat’s milk. Not done yet, he eyed with longing the neglected crispy-edged egg on my wooden plate. I gave it to him, and he swallowed it whole. Blessed with a strong digestion, he could eat as many fried eggs as he wished.
“You are a prodigious breakfast-eater for one so slender.”
“I am, but I never partake much afterwards. A prudent man is the master of his passions and not one to be carried away by appetite.” His gravity was belied by the sparkle in his eye.
“Dried peaches and gooseberry tarts are your weaknesses,” I reminded him of his thieveries.
Nimbly, he changed the subject. “I should like to see Don Luis again.”
“Oh, we must. I promised my grandfather that I would return soon,” but I didn’t mention why, that Tito longed for great-grand-babies.
“We mustn’t contact your grandfather or anyone else until we’re settled in England.”
A trace of trouble marked his brow, and he said no more. Familiar now with his long silences, I sat quiet, not pressing him for information. Soon enough, his mood lightened, and he spoke of our plans for the day, to reach the spa-hamlet Eaux-Chaudes, where we would take the waters. We must cross the border first.
“You ought to get rid of your peasant costume,” he told me. “Your passport says you’re English.”
“What does your passport say? Will they question us at the border?” The thought of being sent back to Madrid unsettled me greatly.
He grinned. “Knowing that we must marry once I found you, I secured a passport that said I, a Scotsman, traveled with my wife—Sofia-Elisabete Munro, née Fitzwilliam. That was why I was delayed in Madrid, before I could set out on my search for you, because I had to wait for my French passport to be signed.”
Resolved now to dress more English, I wore a wrinkled muslin gown that I had stuffed in my portmanteau an age ago in Madrid. We gave away my peasant clothes, but not my sugar-loaf hat, which I insisted on keeping. I simply couldn’t part with my hat of independence.
It turned out that, after much worry and dread on my part, nothing of consequence occurred at the border. Kitt knew what to do. “You must act confident with these customs-house officials,” he explained. The Spanish official barely glanced at our passports after Kitt gave him the usual bribe of a peseta each. Afterwards, at the French customs-house, where we were questioned about our destination, the official searched our belongings for contraband. Finding nothing of interest, he issued us new French passports for two francs apiece. Onward to Eaux-Chaudes we went.
A summer thunderstorm threatened our plans, however, tricked as we were by the innocent-looking serried clouds. The downpour came on without warning. We had just quit the customs-house, when the rain deluged the mountains and flooded the paths. Lightning bolts danced a hundred feet before us. I thought it was the end of us and the world.
Drenched through and through, we sought refuge in a shepherd’s hut. The old shepherd in there, lying on sheepskins, bestirred himself to kindle a fire with blazing straw. He spoke a strange dialect. Using excited gesticulations, he warned us that, because of the rain, the route to Eaux-Chaudes would be treacherous. The shepherd knew a better way—a secret way.
“He seems to demand payment now,” said Kitt.
“I say we trust him.”
So that was how we ventured into the French Pyrenees, led by this old shepherd, who wore a kind of brown-woolen cloak thrown over his head that covered him like a sack. We clambered up steep wild trails known only to the Pyreneesians. If not for our guide, I’m sure we would have been lost in the dark-green forest to be eaten up by wolves, who prowled about in packs.
Quiet it was at high altitude. Piles of rocky peaks surrounded us, the highest ones capped with snow and resembling the Swiss Alps. They brought to mind my Emmerence, whom I had left in Madrid without a proper good-bye. It was not lost on me that she, by daring to write to Kitt, had been the means of my rescue. She clearly no longer felt loyal to her employer. How, then, could I be loca de contenta while she remained a miserable exile? I came to a halt. Kitt bumped into me, for he had been walking behind me on the trail.
“We must not linger, Sofía mía.”
“A great troubling thought has lodged in my brain.”
But he was anxious to leave the Spanish frontier far behind us. I wished for it, too. Yet, now that I stood on French soil, something else tugged at my heart—the possibility that I might never see Spain or my Tito again, and it brought tears to my eyes.
“Think on it while you walk? Perhaps you’ll feel better,” said Kitt, with a worried expression.
Eventually we came upon a warm sulphur spring that gushed forth from the granite. Here, the old shepherd left us. Soon, this wondrous spring dulled my sadness. The air now being mild, we immersed ourselves into the steamy healing waters, where we naturally became seized with amorous intentions. Kitt captured me in his arms, and while he was adoring me, a furtive movement in the forest caught my eye.
A one-eyed lynx crawled atop a boulder. Poised on her haunches, she sat there calmly observing us in our embrace of mutual devotion. Nodding to herself, she muttered out, “Honey-lunatics.” She licked her large padded paw, whereupon she snarled at me. “Tonta! You’re loca de amor.” A click, like that of a rifle-gun, put her on her guard.
“No! Don’t shoot,” I said this to no one.
“Shush.” Kitt rubbed small circles on my back to calm me.
“The lynx is old and tuerta—one eyed. She won’t harm us.”
“What lynx?” Abruptly he twisted round but saw nothing.
The lynx had sprung away. Where had she gone off to in the forest of box-trees? Kitt, meanwhile, felt my forehead for fever. He must’ve thought me a pathetic goose.
“Let’s get dressed,” said he, and he helped me with my things.
“There truly was a one-eyed lynx. You believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course, I believe you.”
“If we stay here a while longer, I dare say the lynx will return.” My persistent heart still wanted to believe it, that One-Eyed Lincelada, the gypsy fortune-teller who had sold me my red-beaded necklace, was roaming the Pyrenees in the form of a lynx.
A troubled sigh parted his lips. “You must promise me not to speak to others about such things—things they would deem fantastical. They won’t understand or appreciate your specialness. Let it be between us only.”
At first, I fought against the idea, that I must split myself into two distinct worlds—one public and false, the other private and true. But then it occurred to me that my behavior could hurt Kitt and his place in the world. I was part of an “us” now.
“Promise me,” he insisted again.
So, I told him, “It will be just between us, honor bright.”
Relieved, he went on with our plans. “We must catch the diligence at Eaux-Chaudes as soon as possible,” and having decided that, his mind went distracted.
Something seemed altogether different about him now. He wasn’t exactly melancholy. But afterwards, the further we went into France, the longer his brooding silences became. An invisible weight rested on his slumped shoulders, and I wondered if that weight was me. Had I burdened him? We were married but not with our parents’ blessings. We were safe but not in England yet. We were economizing but not without hunger.
Despite our meager funds, he never ceased to dote on me. Though I begged him not to purcha
se me a bonnet, he insisted upon it, telling me it was more appropriate for a young lady. Another time, he paid for a posy of edelweiss that a shoeless beggar girl tossed up to us in our diligence. When I folded one of the furry white stars behind my ear, thinking it would please him, he took the flower away.
“We mustn’t bring attention to ourselves,” he whispered out.
I nodded in reply, understanding our need to blend with other travelers.
Three longish days and nights passed, with us riding on that cramped and dirty diligence. At each of the designated stops, where the French officials inspected our passports—first Pau, built on a lofty ridge, then Roquefort, surrounded by a vast pined wood, and finally Bordeaux, situated along the murky-brown river Garonne—they let us alone. Even so, very worrisome to me, Kitt’s appetite had rapidly diminished on the road; he took tea and bread for breakfast, and soon just cold tea and thereafter nothing at all.
Bordeaux, we discovered, is an expensive port-city, a city for epicures. Though we couldn’t afford a French dinner, we survived on simple Spanish fare—bread, cheese, olives, cured sausages. Thousands of exiled liberals lived here. They spoke in their native tongue, ate Spanish food and read Spanish newspapers. They lived peacefully amongst the Bordelais, a cheerful and handsome set of city-folk.
The first thing we did in Bordeaux was to buy a loaf and olive oil, so that we could dip the pieces of bread in the oil. Kitt had done this to please me, knowing it was one of my favorites, but he ate hardly any of it. He remained troubled about our lack of money to get us home.
“I could try again to reach my stepmother in Scarborough,” I suggested.
He sighed softly, knowing that she hadn’t written me a line in years.
I asked him, “Won’t you write to your father?”
After a moment, he said, “It’s unthinkable, given my father’s extreme parsimony and strictness. I’ll write to my brother in London instead.”
But Brodie Munro didn’t write back. Nor did he send money. We had become desperate, unable to pay the bill at our third-rate boarding house, a place located next to a noisy brothel where lived eight prostitutes. We pawned Kitt’s rifle-gun. We pawned his watch and his pocket compass. And when that money was gone, we pawned anything we could, including my portmanteau, knife and spyglass. The loss of the pocket spyglass, which had once belonged to my father during the war, nearly broke my heart.
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